The Small Part
by miss.quixotic
Summary: The harrowing experience of being incarcerated in Arkham Asylum under the torturous rule of Dr. Jonathan Crane, from the point of view of volatile inmate Hallie Matthews.
1. Chapter 1

_Rated T for language, and some disturbing content._

_Naturally, I don't own Batman Begins, or anything to do with it; I'm not profiting from this; please don't sue me._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"The death of a loved one is a curious thing," says Dr. Crane softly.

I enjoy that perhaps a little too much, the way he says 'loved one'. It sounds like something a controlling spouse would say—my _sweet, _my _pet, _my _loved one. _There is some nugget of truth in the sentence, certainly. Underneath the fact that he's only saying it to sound empathetic (_and oh, I know he's not_), there is the fact that he's right. The death of a loved one _is _a curious thing, especially when the loved one is so loved that you hack up your wrists after you realize that they're actually gone.

"Curious," I murmur, tracing the scars with ginger fingertips. He watches my movement through the Glasses.

This isn't the kind of gone where you can get over it—not the kind of gone as in, "I'm gone to the store, honey, I'll be right back." Not the kind of gone where you just don't fancy each other that way anymore and you'll still be friends. Not _even _the kind of gone that allows you to fill your emptiness with complete hatred for your previously beloved (_sweet, pet, loved one_) so that you'll be plotting their death instead of your own. This is not just gone. This is Gone. This is a word so heavy that you need a completely new adjective.

"Did you have another dream?" Dr. Crane asks, poising his pen over the paper on his clipboard. "You look tired."

I stop stroking the scars on my wrist and meet the Icy Stare. I smile, and then a little chuckle escapes me while our eyes are locked. Dr. Crane does not return the smile, the gentle pulling at the corners of your mouth, though I reflect momentarily on the fact that he's probably enjoying this moment even more than I am.

"Did I say something amusing?" he asks coolly.

I shake my head, no longer smiling, and say, "Nope."

"Then you won't mind telling me…what about your current situation is in any way funny?"

The scars on my wrist are upraised, white. They are like little frozen rivers beneath my fingers as I resume the gentle stroke, stroke, stroke. Like petting a dog, only different. _So _different.

"Funny," I say, just to hear it come off my tongue.

Dr. Crane signals to the nurse who is standing watch outside his office door. She comes in with a plastic smile that everyone in the room can see through. She's a smoker, and a mother, and she really, _really _doesn't want to be here. Just like me. Probably just like everyone else in this God-forsaken building.

"I think we've had enough for today," says Dr. Crane serenely. "Please escort Hallie back to her room."

The nurse touches my shoulder gently, but I don't respond. My fingers are still magnetically connected to my wrists, and I'm staring at Dr. Crane, letting my deep hatred for him consume my entire body. He reads me like a book, like a fucking book _every single time. _And this time, luckily enough, he's just skipping out on the reading. Maybe today he's decided I'm not worth the effort.

The nurse picks me up by my elbow. "Come on dear," she says. "Don't fuss."

I don't 'fuss'. I go quietly, shuffling my feet along behind her in my ugly beige sweat-suit.

Our visits aren't usually this short. I've only been in his office for forty-five minutes this time around, and for that, I am grateful. Tomorrow, however…well, tomorrow, I'm not sure what's coming, but whatever it is, I'm sure as hell not looking forward to it.

The Small Part laughs. "_Back to the lovely little ward from whence you came, Hallie-dearest," _it taunts me.

"Shut up," I whisper.

"Shh," says the nurse, stroking my hair. Her touch sends shivers down my spine, makes me want to vomit. "It's alright now," she croons.

I steal one final glance of the (_curious, funny_) icy Dr. Crane before Nursie and I begin our long and not-so-picturesque walk back to my cell in the Criminally Insane Ward—the place that I have called, for the past month, Home Sweet Home.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Still don't own Batman Begins._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Lack of sunlight makes you pale.

Lack of exercise makes your muscles turn to mush.

Lack of love makes you die a slow, painful death, like the rust that creeps across an unused engine.

I stare around my little cell, the small space that confines me and the only thing that is even close to being mine anymore. It is a depressing combination of gray on gray. Concrete floors. Cinderblock walls. Metallic bunk beds. Gray sheets. Even the puddle on the floor is gray.

The Puddle is the result of a plumbing issue that was supposed to be fixed but never really was. The Puddle shows me many things—my pale skin, my mushy muscles. It shows me my straight but tangled auburn hair and my brown eyes, the ones that are currently glazed over from my nightly medication.

_Yummy._

But The Puddle, the almighty Puddle, does not show me my rusting engine, my unused heart which still prattles on for someone who will never turn its key again.

_Shh, Hallie. Don't think about that._

My 'doctor' told me that it was unhealthy for me to dwell on past experiences if they were causing me stress. He told me that I should reach some sort of 'peace' with my memories.

The sadistic little bastard just wants to hear what they are. He and I haven't yet had the heart to heart that includes my in-depth telling of the reason that I'm in this whole mess. Of course, he's read the case file. But he wants the delicious details, just because he knows it makes me squirm to even think about it.

Dr. Jonathan Crane is (_no doubt_) a frightening person. Partially because he has this innate way of being both clean and completely, disgustingly dirty at the same time. Partially because he's so cool with the lawyers and other doctors that come in here but occasionally flips his lid with us, his patients. Partially because he's got no issue with testing out drugs on inmates that he's not particularly fond of, or making them relive their worst memories just to watch them in pain.

But the biggest reason that Dr. Crane scares the shit out of me is not because he's in complete control of me,

(_which he is_)

but because he's lost more marbles than most of the people that he claims to be 'treating.' Sometimes you can see it behind that professional gaze—that little twinkle of madness in his blue eyes.

_"We know something about madness, don't we?" _croons SP.

"No," I say in dark response, but, as per usual, she doesn't shut up.

_"You do so. That's what all the doctors before said. Deteriorating mental state. Just went nuts."_

"I'm not crazy," I whisper.

_"You're in an asylum for a reason. Doctors don't get this kind of thing wrong."_

"I'm not crazy!" I scream, and the sound reverberates against the gray walls and comes back to me. It makes my ears itch, so I cover them, and scream.

Scream. Breathe. Scream.

But somehow, the screaming doesn't do it for me. It's not enough outlet; it's like popping a water balloon with a fine pointed needle when you ought to use a gun. Curled into a fetal position with my hands over my ears, I fall straight into The Puddle, and like the liquid mirror that it is, it shatters all around me and onto my clothes. I don't stop screaming all the way down, not even when my head goes through The Puddle and hits the concrete floor. Crimson roses intertwine with liquid glass in front of my vision, and my own blood soaks my sweat-suit.

After that, it only takes a matter of seconds before Nursie and the rest of the crew file in, her and her two bulky wingmen. They hold my arms out on either side of me, pin me to the floor while Nursie readies the needle. This time I'm screaming out of fear instead of anger.

"I'll stop!" I scream. "No needle! I'll stop! I'm sorry!"

I'm pulling against the strong arms that hold me tightly to the rough ground, but they will not yield. Nursie squeezes the needle in the air until a small jet of green liquid sprays from the top, and then she brings it toward my arm. She finds a vein, slips the needle in, injects, ignoring me as I continue to yell for her to stop.

But she doesn't have to worry about me for very long afterward, because as soon as I feel the hot liquid spill through my arm, the edges of the room smooth out like peanut butter, and Nursie's face starts to turn to goop. Everything is melting all around me, into one big pot of swirling charcoals and grays. Something unintelligible comes out of my mouth, a slurred attempt at speech, but then everything's completely black, and I'm gone.

**

* * *

**

Voices, around me. Even in the darkness.

"Will she be alright?"

_Dr. Crane._

"She should be fine." _Female voice that I do not recognize._ "She took a nasty bump to the head but her skull is intact. It looks like a nice little scrape. She'll probably get a scar out of it."

"It won't affect her memory?" _Dr. Crane._

"Not at all, sir." _Female. _"She might have trouble recalling exact details of the fall or of the time when she was restrained, but other than that, there's no evidence of a concussion."

"Good. That's good." _Yup, that one's definitely Crane. Crane, who is probably demonstrating the Mad Twinkle._

"I suggest that you cancel her sessions for a while." _Female. Saintly female. _"She'll be very fragile emotionally."

"I can't cancel her sessions."

_Bastard Crane!_

"We have a lot to go over, Hallie and I," he murmurs. "We don't have time to miss anything. Why is she sleeping? When will she wake up?"

"I imagine she's sleeping because she's been emotionally and psychologically exhausted." _Female. _"She was arguing with her subconscious before she was medicated."

_Crane, sounding annoyed: _"You don't approve of our medicating her?"

"I think that the over-medication of your patients is often what leads them to their psychological breakdowns, Dr. Crane. I believe that people should be given the chance to search through their own minds at their own speed."

_Crane. Tapping his pencil on his clipboard. _"Can she hear us, doctor?"

"I don't imagine so, no." _Sounding puzzled._

"Excellent."

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. _

There is a strange sound, a sharp hissing, like spray being released from a hose, and then the female is no longer talking. She's screaming. Then there is the sound of something heavy and soft hitting the hard ground, but you can scarcely find it underneath the horrible, delirious screaming.

_I don't want to hear this anymore. Please, God I don't want to hear anymore._

Heavy footsteps, numerous pairs of steel toed boots, the sound of a door swinging. Though I keep my eyes determinedly shut, I listen as the two bulky wingmen drag the female doctor's body out of the room.

_Panic._


	3. Chapter 3

_Infinite thanks to **haku123**, **Royalty09**, and **rain-days** for their all too generous reviews. They are greatly appreciated._

_Disclaimer: Well, you know by now, right?_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

To say that I'm not looking forward to another 'shrink-me' session with Dr. Crane would be the understatement of the century. Not that my opinion matters in the slightest—Nursie has informed me that the doctor is expecting me, and I know all too well that Jonathan Crane is not a man to be kept waiting.

I'm in healthy enough physical shape. According to the female doctor there, I didn't even get that bad of a bump on my head, which is good. The last thing I need is more brain damage.

(_Haha. Insanity humor._)

But I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to endure being in the same room with Crane after hearing him murder one of his own staff. I can picture it going extremely well:

_"Good afternoon, Hallie. Are you feeling better?"_

_"Much, thank you. But I don't imagine that lovely doctor of yours is. I expect you'll be getting a hard time out of that one. Just can't find a good place to bury a body these days, eh, Doc?"_

SP absolutely _swims_ in the decadence of that little fantasy, cackling: _"Well you'd know, wouldn't you, Hal?"_

I don't even have the heart to tell her to be quiet as I walk down the white hall with Nursie holding my arm. The fluorescent lights above us are giving me a wicked headache, and I just want to curl up into a dark little corner and pass out. Maybe die. Probably die.

Crane is shuffling papers when I arrive in his doorway, but his motions stop when he sees me come in. He smiles that polite, frightening smile of his, and the Mad Twinkle makes itself known. I shiver inwardly but bravely cross the room and plop down into the leather chair that I am long since sick of.

"Feeling better?" asks Crane pleasantly. "That was a nasty fall you had."

I drum my fingers on the arms of the chair, unsure how I want to handle this. Usually the moods of our sessions are completely flip-a-coin ordeals, seeing as they all depend on how I'm feeling that particular day. Today, I'm scared out of my mind and I can't keep my thoughts from straying to how that doctor's body sounded when it hit the floor of the recovery room. It makes me wonder how my body would sound.

I really have no idea what to say to him, so I just say, "Yes."

"Yes you're feeling better?"

I nod. _Sure._

"During your stay in the recovery room, I was having a nice chat with one of my staff," says Crane, leaning back in his chair. "She says that the emotional trauma you're experiencing may be more severe than we at Arkham originally thought."

I flinch,

(_damn it_)

realizing immediately that (_of course_) he's not going to tell me what really happened in the recovery ward. He doesn't need to tell me, because I was there, but he's unaware of the fact that I heard everything. He intends to keep it a secret from me.

"How severe?" I ask hoarsely.

"Severe enough that it could cause suicidal behavior," says Crane. "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Fingers. To. Scars. Again.

"Tell me Hallie…what did you use? You don't seem like a razorblade girl to me."

_He reads me like a book, like a fucking book every single time._

"Hallie? I asked you a question."

"It was broken glass," I say loudly, and my face flushes. "I broke a beer bottle and used the pieces. Okay? Satisfied?"

Crane purses his lips, trying not to smile. "I never understood the need to slit ones wrists," he says conversationally. "It seems like an awful lot of pain to have to go through."

"Well pain isn't exactly a factor when you just want it to be over," I say coolly.

"But that still doesn't make sense," says Crane. "Why cause unnecessary suffering when you could just swallow a bottle of pills? And you…you used a jagged edge. That must've hurt a lot." He pauses, chuckles. "You make trouble for yourself constantly, Hallie," he says. "I'm curious as to why you're such a glutton for punishment."

"Maybe I deserve it," I say sharply. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I want to hear whatever you want to tell me."

"Fuck you!" I yell. "I don't want to tell you anything, so stop pushing."

"It's funny, isn't it?" says Crane with a smile. "Life. I got to thinking, while you were in recovery, about how fragile it is. How easily it can be taken away."

"Like your doctor?" I ask, and immediately wish I hadn't. I can see that Crane is angry, very angry, but it is in his insane smile that I find the most terror.

"You heard that?" he asks without wiping the smile off of his face. I start to shake, and clench the arms of the chair until my skin stretches white over my knuckles.

"I heard everything," I say, thankfully keeping my voice from shaking. "And I don't plan on keeping quiet. What will the Outsiders think when they find out that you're murdering members of your staff that don't agree with your methods?"

Crane tilts his head back and laughs, a horrible sound. "Oh Hallie," he says. "You're insane, remember? No one will believe you. And regardless…do you really think I'm going to let anyone near you after this?"

"You can't do that," I remind him. "Even nut houses have visiting hours."

Crane shakes his head. "Not when there's not a nut to visit." He pauses to look at me from behind the Glasses, and I get the strange feeling that he's looking right through me, right into me. "No one threatens me, Hallie Matthews," he says coldly. "I'll see to it that you regret having the nerve to try."

He motions to Nursie, who's standing on the other side of the soundproof wall. "That is all," he tells her when she enters.

"What did you do with her?" I ask tauntingly, deciding that I'm past the point of no return. "There's nowhere to bury her here. Someone _will _find out, Crane, with or without my help."

"Put her in the D Ward," says Crane to Nursie, who nods and continues trying to drag me out of the room. I resist, being that I'm less than eager to go back to the D Ward, where I spent most of my time during the first week of my stay at Arkham. Tiny little cells that come with their own complementary straight jacket. No windows or bed. Just you and the darkness and your thoughts.

"I'm not scared of you, Crane!" I scream just before Nursie closes the door behind her and yanks me down the hall.

"Come on, Hallie," she says soothingly. "If you didn't put up such a stink every time Dr. Crane tries to help you, you wouldn't be in such trouble."

"He murdered a doctor!" I say loudly. "I heard him do it while I was in recovery."

"Oh, don't be silly," she says. "Dr. Crane wouldn't hurt anybody."

_Lady, are we even on the same planet? We're obviously not in the same hospital._

**

* * *

**

Have you ever been alone? No, you haven't. Not until you've been forced to sit in a room the size of a small child with your arms glued around your body, curled up on the floor like some sort of pathetic dog. There is no light in here, and no noise, only the sound of your pulse and breathing. There is an endless amount of time to think about Crane, and listen to the Small Part hiss in your ear.

My stomach clenches and unclenches rhythmically. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts. God damn it, things without names hurt.

My heart, my rusted engine, _hurts, _especially when there's time enough to look back and see his face.

I can't even cover my ears this time while I scream.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Everything the same._

_Again, thanks much to my reviewers, you are too kind. Seriously, I spazz out every time I find out someone else has reviewed. _

_Note: This is my last chance to update for a week. I have a friend visiting from another country and she's going to keep me pretty busy. After that I'm going on vacation for 10 days. In between the Super Busy and the Vaca, I've got 2 days off, so I'll try to update in between packing. If I don't get around to it, deepest apologies. It's only 10 days, though; I'm sure no one will give up on the story completely in that span of time..._

_...right?_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

I (_desperately_) want to convince myself that Crane's promise doesn't frighten me in the slightest, but my Self knows that I'm bullshitting. The thought of him keeps me awake at night while I lie in my little square in the D Ward. I've been very scared on various different occasions during my lifetime, but this makes a close second. I can't keep down the food that's brought to me, and I can't stop myself shaking. I'd kill time sleeping, but Crane haunts my nightmares. I am utterly trapped within myself, and the minute I escape, it's out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Crane keeps me in the D Ward for, I'm guessing, a week. There's 21 meals, and during any other time and in any other cell, I'd be getting 3 a day. 21 divided by 3 is 7. I've been in here 7 days before Nursie opens my cell door and gives me a small, friendly smile.

"Hello, dear," she says, looking down at me. I'm curled up in a corner with my cheek laid on my knees, trying to sleep. I squint up at her. Has she gotten blurrier?

_Nope, that's probably the meds._

"What time is it?" I ask groggily.

"Oh, early morning," she says cheerily. "Time for your breakfast, and then it's off to see Dr. Crane. He believes you're about ready to return to your regular cell."

I get to my feet as quickly as is humanly possible, but the huge amount of drugs that they've been pounding into me prevents any graceful use of my more important motor skills. The doorway tilts at the strangest angle, and my palms slap against the hard walls for support. Nursie puts a secure arm under both of mine and hoists me to my feet, fairly dragging me into the hall where I can sit down against the wall in front of her Drug Cart.

She hands me a little plastic cup with three pills in it—light blue, dark blue, and red.

_What is this, the Matrix?_

I shake my head at Nursie and push the cup away. "No thanks," I say as politely as I can manage when my speech is slurred. "I've had enough of those."

"This is your morning dose. You need it."

I stare at her through half closed eyes. "I can barely talk," I tell her sharply. "I _can't _walk. Do you really think I'm going to take more pills? I'll fall down and crack open my head. Again."

Nursie looks at me for a second, and then stares at the drugs. "I suppose…" she says quietly, more to herself than to me. "Well…well, the dosage you've been taking for the past few days has been much too high…it couldn't hurt…"

She looks at me again, and I look back, hardly daring to believe it.

"Well, alright," she says finally, and puts the pill cup back on the Cart. "But… let's you and I keep this our secret, alright? Don't mention this to the doctor."

"It's not a matter that usually comes up in our friendly discussions," I say sardonically, and Nursie hoists me up to my feet again, holding my arm and guiding me down the hall. Her arms are muscular and hard, but comforting nonetheless. Neither of us speak as we make our way out of the D Ward and towards the foreboding room that is Crane's office.

I've had a lot of free time on my hands, enough to actively imagine the many different torture methods that Crane could utilize in order to ensure that I 'regret having the nerve to try' threatening him. Most of my little brain children involve scalpels and/or the Thing That Hissed when he killed the Female Doctor. The sound was sharp but soft, somehow, in a way that I cannot quite put my finger on.

Like it matters—I know that, no matter how many little fantasies I go through, I still won't have any idea what Crane has in store for me. It's maddening.

Nursie gives me an almost sympathetic look when she deposits me in the Sick-Of-It Leather Chair. My head is still spinning with the grand effort that walking through the halls took. She has a quickly murmured conversation with the good doctor, and then disappears out of the room. But instead of sitting in her usual place outside the room, looking in through the door window and waiting for her signal to reenter, she leaves the hall, and Crane and I are completely alone.

He hasn't changed a bit, naturally; it's only been a week. Same Glasses, same Icy Stare, same scary stillness. I half expected him to look radically different, but I guess that's stupid. Or maybe just insane.

"How has your week been?" he asks with a twisted smile. I can see that, without Nursie's watchful eyes surveying him, the Mad Twinkle is much more prominent. He knows how to act for Outsiders, this man, but once he's among his own kind, the crazy stuff comes through.

I blow my bangs off my face and stare determinedly at the ceiling. "It was very dull," I sigh, trying to sound light, undaunted, and (_liar liar_) unafraid.

"I'm sure," he agrees. "Luckily I have an interesting session planned. We hadn't been getting much done in our previous ones, and this past week has been completely lost, so I thought it'd be good to do some catching up."

I interweave my fingers and plop them onto my lap. "Excellent," I say with a stiff smile. I'm not going to enjoy this at all.

"Well, I'd like to go off what you said in our last session," says Crane, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "You said you thought you deserved punishment. Would you care to elaborate?"

I open my mouth, close it again, and sigh through my nose. At last, I say, "No, actually."

"I was being courteous, Hallie," he says flatly. "It isn't an option."

"Well you're my doctor," I say incredulously. "Aren't _you _supposed to tell _me _this stuff?"

"I don't believe you deserve punishment, Hallie."

_Pft. Yeeeah._

He notices my disbelieving expression and the Mad Twinkle gleams merrily. "I really don't," he says, his voice seeming innocent enough. "You're the one who said that _you_ thought you deserved it. I'd like you to explain why."

"In case you haven't already noticed," I say, biting my nails, "I'm in the Criminally Insane Ward. Meaning that I'm not just nuts, I'm bloodthirsty, criminally nutso bonkers." I spit out the dislodged end of my nail on his clean carpet and say, with a lighthearted shrug, "I've done terrible things, doctor. You've read my file. You already know."

"So you consciously accept that the things you've done are wrong?" says Crane evenly. "You know that what you've done is unlawful and horrible, and you know that you deserve punishment for it."

"Mmm… yeah."

"So let's go over the things that you deserve punishment for."

I can't help it. I blanch.

"Actually, I think we've made quite enough progress for today," I say in his same even tone.

"No, no," says Crane briskly. "I've moved a couple appointments back for this morning. We have all the time in the world for you to start working through some of your larger psychological barriers."

"You're really loving this, aren't you?"

"Let's start with Ian deFranc."

I bite the insides of my cheeks and stare at the carpet. Ian deFranc. Wow, was that ever a long time ago.

"Ian was your first, no?" asks Crane, as if we're discussing the matter over tea. "It says here he was, but you're a mysterious person, aren't you Hallie? Were there more before him that you'd care to discuss?"

Oh, I hate him.

"No," I say coolly.

"Do you think that you deserve punishment for him?"

"No."

"What about Michael Anderson?"

"No."

"Kale Vander-Well?"

"No."

"Hmm. Then certainly for A—"

"No," I say loudly before he can utter that last name, that gut wrenching name. I won't hear it in this room.

"No," I repeat. "I'm not having this discussion."

"If you don't feel you deserve punishment for any specific people," says Dr. Crane, "then do tell…what, Hallie Matthews, do you think you deserve punishment for?"

I only realize that I'm squeezing my wrist when the tips of my fingers start to go numb. I release myself carefully and feel the blood spilling back into my purple hand. My scars stand out like lightning in a storm.

"Change of subject, please," I murmur.

Crane pauses, and I can feel the Icy Stare on me. I ignore it.

"What are you afraid of?" he asks quietly, and I can tell just from his tone and from the intensity of his eyes on my skin that he has wanted to ask me this question for a long time.

"That's none of your business," I tell him, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on my wrists, though I hear his shoes on the carpet as he stands up behind his desk. There is a faint clatter but I don't want to look up, don't want to meet those eyes, don't want him to read me

(_like a fucking book_)

all over again. I just listen to him approaching me, doubtlessly about to whisper something menacing in my ear, to tell me that I am going to tell him my worst phobia _or else._

Instead, I hear something worse—the Thing That Hissed hisses in my ear, and my vision is temporarily clouded by white mist that I can feel on my face and in my nose, burning. I gasp and take it into my lungs, and then everything is brightly lit and terrifying. I look wildly around, but Crane is gone, and in his place is a figure with enormous violet eyes and plastic pink lips, and it whispers in the back of my mind, and it says,

_"What do you fear?"_

I scream and cover my face with my arms, and I feel myself fall backwards out of the chair in my scramble to get away. My head hits carpet,

(_it's softer than concrete_)

and I push myself backwards away from the manifested Small Part, somehow out of my head and into a body, into another Self.

"Get the fuck away from me!" I scream, and my foot strikes out at the approaching SP. My heel makes contact with her leg, but she just flinches and keeps coming at me. I am crawling backwards, away from her, but my back hits the wall and I'm trapped, and she's coming closer.

_"What do you fear?" _she demands again.

"Leave me alone!"

_"Say my name," _she hisses. _"Say my name, Hallie, and I'll leave you alone."_

My chest heaves as I gasp for breath to drown the panic, and I figure if it's going to get her to go away, I'll do it.

"Small Part," I say, my voice thick with tears. "Your name is Small Part."

She grins, reaches out to touch me, and I faint back into the abyss from whence I came.


	5. Chapter 5

_I've got a free moment and have decided to update early, just in case. Couldn't help it; I'm pretty excited about this one._

_I've officially (and completely) disclaimed any ties with Batman Begins and its characters, but I forgot to mention: Hallie, Nursie, and the Small Part do belong to me, as do the three boys mentioned in the previous chapter (that'd be Ian deFranc, Michael Anderson, and Kale Vander-Well). Another belongs to me, too, but you won't learn about that character for a while yet. _

_Anyway, I'll stop rambling. Mega-short chapter, but it leaves an open end for some think time._

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Heading out of the abyss and back to Earth, I realize two things.

One: The Thing That Hissed releases Her, releases The Small Part from my body and my mind. It somehow unlocks her from her little prison and gives her a body, and the ability to make me panic.

Two: Earth is very cold. It's making gooseflesh crawl across my arms and legs, making me shiver.

But I refuse to open my eyes. For a few seconds, I just want to remain Here, between Earth and the darkness, with my eyes closed but my ears open, awake but somehow oblivious to what's going on around me. Just for a few seconds, because when I open my eyes everything will become real again, and I'll have to find something in me strong enough to deal with it.

_Three…two…one…_

_Aaaaaand the eyes are open!_

All at once, I want to be asleep again. I am not in the D Ward, but I'm not in my regular cell either. I'm in a spacious square room with dull metallic walls and tiled floors. I cannot get up to see behind me, because my arms and legs are strapped to the good doctor's special chair.

I yank on the bindings, but (_of course_) they're strong. Every time I pull, the metal buckles of the straps hit the metal arms of the chair, creating a horrible jangling that echoes around the strange room. I add to it with my classic scream, half of anger, half of terror, and I hope Crane's somewhere out there thinking it's only anger and shaking in his immaculate boots.

There must be a door behind me, because I hear it open, and something in the way that the footsteps are arrogant and smooth tells me that Dr. Crane has indeed heard me, and is coming in for another chat.

He steps right up to my chair and peers down at me whilst I'm breathing like I've just run a mile, and his blue eyes observe me, reading me

(_like a fucking book_)

I have the strong urge to hit him, but I can't. I can see him calculating this, taking in my anger and my violent thoughts, and he smiles.

"Difficult to cause trouble in here, isn't it?" he asks pleasantly.

"You can't keep me in here, Crane," I say, but my tired voice shakes more than it threatens.

Crane doesn't even bother with a snide remark, commenting on my situation or his supreme rule over me. He just smiles, and once the Mad Twinkle becomes apparent, I know that he can do anything he wants because we are utterly alone.

"So we made some interesting progress yesterday," he says, beginning to walk around my chair. "We learned that your deepest fear is named Small Part. Correct?"

_But he wasn't there._

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"Don't you remember? Yesterday, during our session, you had a bit of a fit. And when asked what your greatest fear was, you said Small Part."

"No," I say insistently, desperately. "That wasn't what happened. You disappeared, and she got out somehow; I saw what she looked like."

I could remember her now, what she looked like. Big, purple eyes, glossy pink plastic lips. Peachy skin and freckles, and a jet black bob that was terrifying in its ridiculousness. She had been wearing a black tank top that exposed her perfect, perky cleavage, and the tiniest plaid skirt imaginable. Knee-high 'come-hither'boots. I had never taken the time to picture what she might look like, but now that I had seen her…well somehow, it was quite perfect.

"She?" asks Crane. "You're afraid of a_ person_ named Small Part?"

"You weren't there," I whisper. I know he wasn't.

"You hallucinated. That happens in times of severe panic."

"And what caused the panic?" I ask, more of myself than of him.

_Think, Hallie. Think. _

The Thing hissed, and then I was scared. Everything was bright and sharp and loud even in the silence. And then I saw Her, and she was as clear as crystal,

(_a very vivid hallucination_)

coming towards me with her hand outstretched, wanting to touch me. And Crane was no longer there. She caused the panic. But the Thing caused her to come out.

The Thing That Hissed. What did it sound like?

Like…spray. Like bug spray when you're getting rid of spiders, like Windex.

_Like a spray. Like a spray that causes panic._

What causes panic? Fear. Your worst fear.

An air toxin that causes panic-inducing hallucinations.

Wow. This day just got a whole lot worse.

"You dosed me," I murmur. "You dosed me with something that made me see her."

"Very good, Hallie. It isn't fun, is it? Seeing your worst fear, in the flesh."

He definitely had me there; it wasn't an experience I was looking to repeat.

I don't bother answering out loud, but Crane doesn't seem to care. He's rustling through his briefcase, and while he does, it's my turn to watch him. His face is clear of emotion, as it usually is, though I can see in his eyes the Mad Twinkle, mixed with a little bit of (_what?_) excitement.

Out of his briefcase, he pulls a black canister with a strange lid the likes of which I have never seen. He shakes it slightly, and I can hear the light liquid moving around inside.

"It's a new formula I've been working on for an associate of mine," he says. "Though it's been giving such good results, I think I'm going to keep a stock of it myself. It's interesting what you can do when you have someone's fear in a bottle."

I stare at the black canister, and feel my heart speeding up.

He holds it close to my face, and I'm sure I'm going to die of a heart attack. But he doesn't spray it. Instead, he points to a little black tab on the strange lid.

"When I press this," he murmurs to me, "it will release the toxin, and then Small Part. Do you understand?"

I nod quickly. _Yes, yes!_

"Now, there will be no need for me to release this, so long as you answer my questions. Okay?"

I close my eyes tightly and nod again, knowing that this is going to be immensely painful. But I promised myself

(_promised him_)

that I'd never let her out again, never let her control me. Whatever Crane wants, I know he'll get, so that I can keep her within her psychic prison.

Crane pulls up a chair from behind my own, somewhere that I can't see. He places it beside me and sits down, taking his clipboard out of the briefcase and clicking his pen.

"Now," he says, settling in for a feast of my painful memories. "As for this Small Part…I want to know who she is."

I take a deep, shuddering breath. "It's a long story," I tell him in a whisper.

He nods. "Start at the beginning."


	6. Chapter 6

_Monumental chapter! Huzzah!_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

I have never tried to start telling my life from the beginning, like a story. I have never had a talent with words, but after I've made my rocky start, I find it pouring out

_(like the blood before it)_

and I'm no longer in the room strapped to the chair. I am back in time, reliving it all.

"I was born into the most normal family possible. My parents both worked office jobs in the city near the suburbs where we lived—in a nice little yellow house with a green lawn and garden gnomes. I grew up in that house. My school was just down the street.

"From nearly the beginning, it was obvious that I… I wasn't like other kids. I could occupy myself without toys. I was never scared to be alone, even in the dark.

"My parents thought I was independent and my teachers thought I was gifted. But none of that meant much to me, especially when the truth was far more interesting.

"I never needed toys because there was conversation, and I was never scared because I was never alone. There was… someone else.

"I wasn't sure who she was, but she was unlike anyone I'd ever met. She said things, talked about thing that no one else would ever say to me or that I would dare to think about. She was vulgar and sadistic and rebellious, and before long she was my best friend. I couldn't talk to anyone like I could talk to her, so honestly and without fear of judgment. The best, and possibly the strangest part was that she was there every second of every day, whenever I needed her. I never suspected that something was wrong, because her voice in the back of my mind was all I'd ever known.

"I think I was about five or six when my parents started getting worried that something was going on. They got rid of our dog and both of our cats, but it didn't stop."

"You were being injured?" asks Crane.

I nod. "I didn't know where they were coming from, the scratches. They were deep and clean, and they hurt all the time. I couldn't remember where I'd gotten them from, because I was never very daring and I didn't usually get myself into situations that would get me hurt that way. I'd just wake up and there'd be more. It continued like that for a while, though after my parents found out that it wasn't the animals doing it, they started making me go to a psychiatrist regularly, even though we couldn't afford it. They thought I'd befriended some psychopath or something stupid, but that theory was fairly short lived, because pretty soon they caught me getting up to get the kitchen knives… the funny thing is, to this day I don't remember doing any of it.

"For a while I was moved into their room so they could watch me while I slept. I got intensive therapy and was even put on medication for a full year. After that, they figured it was safe enough to put me back in my own room. The cutting didn't start again. I don't even have any scars.

"Things went really smoothly for a few years after that, but the voice in my head, my best friend, was becoming an even bigger part of my life, if that was possible. I started listening to her more carefully, confessing deeper parts of my Self to her. Sometimes I even did the things she was suggesting I should do, or said to others what she said to me. When I was taking her direction, people perceived me as cool and confident. In high school, it didn't take long for me to climb to the top of the social food chain. I ran with the popular kids, drank with them, did drugs. I was invited to all the biggest parties.

"When I was fourteen, the must-go party was for the most popular guy in school, our football captain, Ian deFranc. I got an invite, of course, and I went with my little voice coaching me all the way through introductions and drinking games. I drank too much, and subconsciously, I knew I was starting to make a bit of a fool of myself. Ian didn't care, though. We got pretty friendly. The last thing I remember, I was in his room, and things were going way too fast. I was getting scared, and I tried to stop him, but then I blacked out.

"When I came to, I was lying in Ian's bed, alone. My clothes were gone, and everything hurt. I got up, turned on the light, and looked in the mirror—I was absolutely _covered _in blood. It… it wasn't mine. I was in shock, I guess, because it didn't even occur to me to panic or ask someone for help. I found my clothes on the floor and climbed out Ian's window. I walked home and took a shower while my parents were working late. I only got a few hours of sleep before the cops were at my door. Someone had called them on the party for loud music and teen drinking. While they were looking around, they found Ian's body in his bedroom closet.

"Some of my friends had told the police that I'd been at the party, and someone had said they saw me and Ian go into his room together. His body was completely mangled. He'd been beaten to death with one of his trophies. No one could hear him over the music. Or else they were too drunk.

"They found my prints all over the trophy, but I knew I hadn't done it. I couldn't have. I couldn't even remember anything.

"My parents hired a lawyer for the trial, a friend of the family. I had a full physical, and the gynecologist determined that I'd been sexually active recently. The lawyer got me to plead self defense, saying that Ian had raped me and I'd beaten him off when he tried to do it again. My psychiatrist said that my defense mechanism was to block out painful memories completely, and that my lack of recollection for Ian's murder fit perfectly with my previous episodes. I wasn't charged. I became the victim instead of the murderer, but I had to continue getting help from the psychiatrist.

"The voice in my head completely condoned Ian's murder, said that he deserved it. I tried to tell her that I hadn't done it, that I didn't even remember having sex with him, let alone murdering him for trying to _rape me_. But she just laughed, like we had some sort of secret or inside joke between us.

"It was after Ian's death that things really started to change. Our relationship—the one between me and the voice—changed. She teased me, bossed me around wherever I went. She made me feel guilty about every little thing I did, every mistake that I made. She called me a murderer.

"I moved out of the house and into my own apartment when I was eighteen. The place was small but affordable, and close to the college where I'd be going. I was really excited at the prospect of a fresh start; the voice had made high school a living hell, and no one wanted to be around me after they found out that I'd killed their football captain.

"In college, I was going to be majoring in Fine Arts. Michael Anderson was in one of my classes. There was a… mutual attraction. We dated.

"At first it was just something little, something easy that would be fun after classes. We'd go out to dinner, go out clubbing. But then it got more serious, and we talked more. I knew that I wasn't in love with Michael, that I never could be, but nonetheless. He went from the guy I was dating to my boyfriend.

"The voice hated Michael deeply, though I suppose she had reason enough. After Ian, I was scared shitless of sex or anything to do with it, and refused to do anything with Michael besides kiss. I knew that this bugged him, and eventually it became apparent that there was someone else. I didn't have enough emotional energy to deal with it properly, or even just leave him—I'd become accustomed to his presence. I didn't want to confront him and have my life change again.

"Now I know I should have. Affair or not, I figured that if I got over my fear and let him get close to me, we might be able to work things out and I wouldn't have to break up with him. But that just made things worse. The first time Michael Anderson spent the night at my apartment, I woke up and he was dead. Just like before, I couldn't remember anything—only this time, I had no excuses, no other possible suspects… just me.

"I took his body out of the city, as far as I could into the middle of nowhere, and I buried it deep. Then I went back and cleaned out my apartment, dropped out of college, and moved to Gotham.

"I got a job as a favor at a book store near my new place, working under a friend of mine. It was stressful trying to work and make rent, especially with the voice whispering terrible things to me constantly.

"Kale Vander-Well was a regular at the book store. He asked me out a couple times over the years that I worked there, but I was in no way ready for another relationship after what happened with Michael. I was twenty-three by the time Kale got pushy, started insisting on walking me home. Sometimes he'd call me in the middle of the night, or text me on my cell to say he was watching me. I got scared, but not for me… for him.

"I stayed at the book store late one night to catch up with my friend. When I got home, Kale was there. He started talking about me, about how much he loved me and needed me, and the voice was furious. For the first time, I could feel the blackout coming on, could feel her taking over. I tried to warn Kale through the haze, but then it was over.

"Kale survived. Instead of letting the blackout swallow me, I struggled and resurfaced. He was bleeding on the carpet. I drove him to the emergency room and dropped him off. At that point, I didn't care if I got arrested—I had figured out what was going on.

"The voice was never my friend. It was me, my mind, the small part of it that I couldn't—can't—control. That was where she got her name: Small Part.

"Usually, she's stuck in her prison, in a dark corner of my mind, taunting me. But when she's at her most powerful, she finds a way to take me over so that she can slake her bloodlust."

Now I'm shivering on the chair, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck raised. I have never told my full, unedited story to anyone.

_And I'm not planning to start now._

"Kale never told the people at the hospital who it was that attacked him," I say. "When I found out that I wasn't going to jail, I decided to get rid of the risk of further murders by taking away the body that the Small Part inhabited. That's why the attempted suicide."

There is a moment's pregnant pause, before Crane breaks it.

"But you're forgetting something—or rather, someone," he says, and leans in close to whisper,

"What about Ashley Carr?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Ashley Carr is none of your business," I say sharply, trying to drown out the sound of my runaway heart, though I'm sure that even the inmates on the other end of the asylum can hear it. For a moment of sheer stillness and infinite possibility, I cannot decide which frightens me more: The Thing That Hissed or the memory of Ashley Carr.

"Hallie," says Crane warily, "let me explain to you, since your understanding seems to fall unfailingly short in this matter: _you _are my business. The city of Gotham pays me to cure you of whatever mental illnesses you have so that you can be released once more as a working member of society. Is that in any way unclear?"

"Working members of society are allowed to keep secrets," I say stiffly.

"Secret," says Crane. "Faithful or cautious in keeping confidential matters confidential; secluded, sheltered, or _withdrawn. _Withdrawal is not a characteristic that pertains to normal, working members of society, Hallie. Even so, as you do not pertain to said demographic, you're not allowed secrets by any definition while you are living under my care."

"Oh, go to hell," I snap. "You've read my file. You know what happened."

"I know the case file," says Crane with a nod. "But you, and you alone know the details of and the reasons for the murder."

I freeze quite completely. It stuns me how good I'm getting at that.

My previous psychiatrist was rather correct—I _am _good at blocking painful things from my memory. Ashley Carr was one of the things that remained clear as ever, stowed away in one of the big black filing cabinets at the back of my mind. Though I try to keep the particular photographs involving Ashley Carr under lock and key, they sometimes slip forward.

Ashley Carr is someone that I can bring back to life only in memory. But the _Murder _of Ashley Carr… that is something that is not mine to reenact, as is the reasoning behind it.

"Tell me about Ashley Carr," says Crane.

I sigh deeply, and open the big black filing cabinet labeled Ashley Carr, not for Crane, but for me, because in times when I am feeling ungrateful for the asylum, I must remind myself why I am here. I am an inmate because I am criminally insane. I am a murderer.

_Take it from the top, Hallie, baby._

The top drawer of the filing cabinet opens with a deep metallic _whoosh, _exactly as I remember it from the last time I decided to confront the demons within. It is still filled to the brim with paper memorabilia: letters, music tracks, and photographs that were never taken, that only I can see.

I haven't tried to remember in so long that the purity of it, the smell inside it

(_his cologne_)

sends the tears down my cheeks before I even realize they're in my eyes. I stare at the ceiling and try to blink them away, but they're stubborn as ever. They blur the colorful photographs in my mind's eye, which is also weeping.

"Ash," I say with a noise that is half a sob, half a remembering laugh. "No one called him Ashley."

"Tell me about Ash."

I open my mouth, breathe in, and settle myself into the scented dust of Memory, of good memories that came after the hard years that made up most of my life. Memories of days filled with so much sunshine that it dripped on me like honey, making everything sweet. And before my trip to my own personal Hell, to the murder that made it all, I can remember first:

There was a happy time before this. There was a time when I was not a pasty toothpick, when I was not grotesquely thin and sallow. There was a time when I was beautiful, and someone saw me as such. I loved and was loved.

And then I lost. Oh, _how _I lost.

"First and foremost," I begin, "I loved Ashley Carr. And now he is dead."


	8. Chapter 8

_Finally found a chance to update, so I made it nice and long. Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"It wasn't my fault."

God, how many times had I said that phrase that week? Too many to count. When the printer jammed and everyone looked at me, when a coffee stain magically appeared on the new white carpet inches from the stairs that I always tripped on, when my collegue's plant started dying after she'd shot down my idea at a staff meeting... I'd looked suspicious in all counts, though I'd really done none of it (with the exception of the plant, for which I was unadmittedly sorry).

Such was life in an office job. I desperately missed the bookstore where I'd been working previously, but after Kale... well, after Kale, there really was no returning. My friend Angela was disappointed that she'd have to return once again to running the place by herself, but I imagined she'd survive, possibly even better now that I was gone.

Though in times like these, it would've been really great to hear her voice.

"What do you mean, it wasn't your fault?" asked my boss. Geoff was a large man, though not in a sickening, jiggling kind of way. He was a sturdy, solid mass, and clearly had a head on his shoulders. He was now looking at me in a way that suggested that I was a disobedient dog that had just peed on a new carpet.

"I mean it wasn't my fault," I said, referring to the enormous mess that had been made. And it really wasn't my fault. Well, not entirely. Our office was working on managing the funds for a new exhibit at one of Gotham's more prestigious museums, and somehow, all the written records (the ones we used most often, being that Geoff didn't exactly live in the age of technology) of the different artifacts that would be in the exhibit had disappeared into thin air.

Geoff was furious, to say the least. And I _had _been in charge of keeping track of the comings and goings of the artefacts for the exhibit, so it was slightly unreasonable for me to be angry at him for immediately looking to me for an explanation.

I had no troubling being angry at him anyway.

"The written records were your responsibility," he said. "All you had to do was make sure they stayed in order and intact. How did three of our filing cabinets become suddenly empty?"

"I suspect thievery was involved, sir," I said, perhaps a little too warily. A couple of people around me clucked their tongues disapprovingly.

_Oh, go to Hell, _I thought hotly. Of course, the minute that the underdog started getting shit, a mob of eager onlookers formed.

"Thievery," Geoff repeated blankly. "Yes, Hallie, I suppose that thievery would be involved, considering how expensive some of the pieces are. But that's your job, isn't it? To make sure that thievery _isn't _involved?"

"I was on vacation," I growled. "The files disappeared while I was on vacation. Who did you appoint to take my place while I was gone?"

"Carrie."

"Well then I suggest you talk to Carrie about where the files are."

"Watch your tone," said Geoff warningly. "You remember who you're speaking to. I'll have you know that Carrie is one of our most esteemed workers, and I hardly think that she'd let the files be stolen while they were in her care."

"But I would when it wasn't even my job?" I said loudly, incredulously. This was unbelievable. All because Carrie was a D Cup, I'll bet you anything.

Some people nodded to each other in the crowd that was slowly but surely forming around the little scene we were making. I felt my face grow hot. This was the last thing I needed out of a new job. As if there wasn't enough shit floating around in the toilet bowl that was my life.

"Look," I said slowly, calmly. "I don't know what happened to the files. I will try to find out, but there's no possible way for me to make them magically reappear. I'll ask Carrie if she's heard anything, and then I'll get back to you."

"If those files were stolen, it means that some thief knows the dates and times that some extremely rare and expensive pieces of history are being shipped to the museum," said Geoff. "Do you know what they could do?"

"I imagine they'd steal them."

"You don't sound at all concerned."

_Frankly, I'm not._

"Of course I'm concerned," I said unconvincingly. "But there's nothing I can do. They're gone."

Geoff sighed; he knew I was right.

"Find them," he said. "Go to the museum and tell them what's happened so they can keep an eye open for anything strange."

"Right now?"

"Yes, Hallie, right now. That won't be a problem, will it?"

I bit my lip. I wasn't exactly in a position to argue.

"No, sir," I said. "It won't be a problem."

And then I stalked off, out of the office building and into the busy streets of Gotham to where my hunk of junk car stood parked. Driving to the museum, I didn't allow myself to fume, even to grumble. I just drove.

It is through this ordeal, through almost being fired, that I met Ashley Carr.

He was sitting behind the front desk in the lobby of the museum, though not where the lady who ran the front desk usually sat. He was twiddling his thumbs a little farther back, clearly absentminded and not listening to anything that was going on around him. I was in no mood to be boisterous or demanding, and (truth be told), more time away from the office served me fine. I crossed my arms on the front desk and decided that I'd wait patiently for Lady of the Front Desk to arrive back from wherever she was.

Without really meaning to, I got to looking at the man behind the desk who was being absent minded. He was, I noticed straightaway, handsome in a rather undemanding way. He didn't scream model or high power. Instead, there was something almost soft about his looks, and I could tell just from the smoothness of his dark, intelligent eyes that he was a kind person. Straight black hair fell untidily in his face over the brow that was furrowed in concentration. I couldn't even begin to imagine what he might be thinking about.

As if he sensed that I was staring rather unabashedly at him, he looked up, and in that instant when our eyes met, I was in love. It was as simple as that.

I had never actually been in love before then. I had suspected it in times when I was twelve and had a crush. I could imagine us getting married and living in a house with a white picket fence and growing old together with lots of children and grandchildren. But this feeling that was striking me now was not quite the same, though it was infinitely more wonderful. It was like a warm tingling sensation was sweeping from my feet to my hair follicles, making my heart thud loudly in my chest and blood rush erratically through my veins.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

I blinked, startled, wrestling with this utter insanity that had so suddenly overtaken me.

"No," I said, dazed. "Well... I don't think so."

He smiled. I gaped.

"Try me," he said.

"Well, I need someone who knows about the files for the new Egyptology exhibit," I said, almost embarrassed. "I—that is we, the company I work for—we're in charge of the finances and the files for the exhibit. And the files... well they've sort of disappeared into thin air while I was on vacation last week."

"Disappeared into thin air?" he asked. "Well that's an interesting concept."

"Yeah, well," I said, and sighed heavily. "My boss didn't seem to think so; he seemed quite keen on firing me."

"He won't fire you," said the man confidently. I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"You seem awfully sure for a complete stranger," I said, though the last two words were like cement on my tongue. This man, this man of delicate beauty, did not seem at all like a complete stranger. In fact, I was wondering if maybe we hadn't met in a previous life.

"Well," he said, leaning in closer, "between you and me... this museum has an entire room full of written files downstairs. They call it the Filing Room."

"Myth," I said promptly.

"Truth," he disagreed lightly. "In fact..." He jangled a little piece of silver in front of me. "...I have the key."

"Who are you?" I asked with a laugh, though my question was perfectly serious.

"Ashley Carr," he said, offering me his hand. "At your service."

I shook his hand, then paused, the wheels in my mind turning. "Did you say Ashley Carr?"

"Yes."

"You're not Ashley Carr. You cannot be Ashley Carr."

He smiled a wary smile and nodded. "Yes, I am."

"I know you," I said. "You're the..."

"...architect of this museum," he finished with me, smiling more broadly now. I honestly couldn't believe it. I had always loved this museum, always loved the architecture, and now the man who had done it all was shaking my hand.

Still shaking my hand. I let him go awkwardly.

"This is amazing," I said as calmly as possible. "I love your work."

"I'm more glad than I can tell you," he said, and his face was (strangely enough) the picture of sincerity. "Missus...?"

"Miss!" I said quickly.

_Ugh, __Hallie._

"Miss," I said again. "Hallie Matthews. Nice to meet you."

"An honor," he said gravely. "Now... you have some troubles with written records. I suspect thievery was involved."

He walked me downstairs to the Filing Room, and it was just like a fairy tale. Except for the dust and the cobwebs and the spiders that still hung around, and that lingering smell of yellowing pages. I didn't care.

So that was how I met Ashley Carr. And that was also how Ashley Carr saved my job, and possibly the entire exhibit that I was representing legally. And after the exhibit opened and I still (mercifully) had my job, he asked me out to dinner.

**

* * *

**

"So you dated," interjects Crane, pulling me awake.

_How nauseating._

"Yes," I said. "For a year. I was twenty four when Ash said that he wanted to marry me."

"And you said...?"

"Yes," I say indignantly. "Of course I said yes."

"You didn't have any doubt?"

"I loved him. Love him. Of course I didn't have any doubt. I..." I consider that, and my Self detects bullshit once again.

"Okay," I admit. "I doubted. We were in a fancy restaurant. Ash got down on one knee and everything. And the moment, the scene, the people around us... everything was so beautiful, it felt like something out of a dream. And the minute he asked me, I knew that I wouldn't doubt because of him or what I felt about him. I doubted because of Her, because of what she did to Ian and Michael and Kale before Ash, and even though he wasn't anything like any of them, I knew she hated him."

"How did you know?"

"She told me," I say softly. "Again and again, in her own way. She tried to convince me that he was no good, that he was trying to steal me away from the rest of the world. But that was only after he was gone. Whenever I was with him, it was easier to make her shut up. But in the nights after he drove me home, she would lecture me to no end. She wasn't afraid he was stealing me from the world. She was afraid he was stealing me from her."

I pause, remembering, remembering the night that I condemned Ashley Carr.

"After the proposal," I said. "He came to my apartment. And that night, while he was sleeping, I went into the bathroom and I talked to the Small Part, our first real conversation in a long time. I told her that I was happy, and that I'd done it without her. And I told her..."

(_"...you didn't do it without me, you need me, stupid bitch, need me..."_)

"...I told her..."

(_"...he will hurt you just like all the others, just like Ian and Michael and Kale he will hurt you..."_)

"...I told her that I didn't need her..."

(_"...of course you need me, I protected you when there was no one else, right from the very beginning..."_)

"... and I told her that she had to leave."

(_"You cannot tell me to leave! You cannot make me leave! He's not good enough for you; he'll never be as good as me!"_)

"You told the Small Part to leave?" echoes Crane.

"Yes," I say, and my voice is surprisingly strong. "I told her that Ash made me happy, happier than I ever was when she was instructing me. I told her that she was never to talk to me again. I told her to leave, and never come back."

"And what did she say?"

"She told me that I'd be sorry."

"And were you?"

I swallow. "Yes."

"Why?"

I slam my eyelids shut and wish to disappear from the watchful eyes of Dr. Jonathan Crane. I don't know what he wants, exactly. I heard about his obsession with fear from the other inmates, about his obvious insanity. But the way that he has decided to punish me since I arrived at Arkham has been so helter-skelter; there is no rhyme or reason to the things he chooses to do.

Do the insane need reasons?

"Why were you sorry, Hallie? Why did she make you sorry?"

All at once, I am twenty four all over again, and the nightmare is haunting my waking hours, and I am

**

* * *

**

_I am waking slowly from a blissfully peaceful doze that was started with the infinitely pleasurable feeling of having someone next to me. I look at the ring on my finger. It is perfect. It's simple and a little bit quirky; it doesn't boast its beauty or wish to be more. It just is. Like love._

_I breathe deeply in through my nose, expecting to inhale the scent of night air floating in through the window that I left open to catch the midnight breeze. Instead, I smell something musty, salty, __warm__. The window is closed, and the smell of Death is trapped... the smell of blood._

_This feels a little bit too familiar. Desperately, I seek Ash's face in the moonlight, but he is not there. I am alone._

_Invisible icy fingers grasp at my throat and steals__ the air from my lungs. This is how it was before, how it had always been. But it has been so different for such a long time. Ash has been protecting me, keeping her away whenever he is present. She cannot affect him, cannot touch us. _

_"Ash," I call out in a carrying whisper. "Where are you?"_

_I half expect him to be in the bathroom, but the light is not on and the door is not closed. I am afraid to inspect myself, because of Ian, because of Michael, because of the Death-smell and the window that was open and now is closed. _

_But I didn't feel her taking over! I felt nothing! There was only a state of complete, drifting peace that was uninterrupted and long... and now this, this choking panic that seems normal compared to the dreamlike state of the past year._

_I get out of bed, willing myself not to let the dream slip out of my reach._

_And, oh God, there is blood everywhere. It stains the carpet, and my pyjamas, and now that I am thinking about it, I can feel it on my hands. _

_Please, I think. Please don't let it be his._

_As I creep into the living room I am shaking with fear. Death does not scare me, but the possibility that Ash might have met it frightens me above all else. And, just like magic, there he is, lying behind the couch, shaking just slightly less violently than I, crimson blossoming out of his white sleeping shirt like a sinister flower. I fall to my knees._

_"__Hallie__," he says, and his faint voice_

(too faint, oh God, too faint)

_is__ tainted with relief. "It's you, isn't it?" he says. "You were someone else."_

_"I'm so sorry," I cry, for the sobs have already started taking me over. "I'm so sorry."_

_"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks._

_"Because you weren't supposed to find out, ever," I choke. "You chased her away, and she wasn't supposed to ever come out for you. I thought she was leaving for good." I close my eyes and he __reaches out for my hand, and being who I am, I have no choice but to let him take it. "I thought you'd hate me if you found out."_

_"I could never hate you," he laughs, as if this notion is ridiculous rather than completely plausible. "And I'd still marry you. I would."_

_"Do," I beg. "Marry me. Please."_

_"I can't, __Hallie__-doll. I'm leaving."_

_Acid sinks into my stomach, and I know he's right. I can see it as the glaze begins to overtake his beautiful eyes. _

_"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't want to make you face this alone. I wish... I wish there was some other way..." Abruptly, his voice loses its dreamy edge, becomes urgent. "You cannot give her power, __Hallie__," he says, his stare boring into my eyes. "Don't let her take you."_

_"She's so powerful," I cry. "I can't control her."_

_"You can," he says. "You have to promise. Promise me."_

_"Ash, please," I nearly scream. "Please, please don't leave."_

_"Promise me, __Hallie__. Promise me now."_

_I rest my forehead on his bloodied chest and whisper, "Okay. I promise."_

_"I love you," he says, and is gone. Just like that._

**

* * *

**

Everything that people have told you about watching someone die is lies. They do not appear to be sleeping, do not appear peaceful, and do not even appear entirely gone. The last traces of a thoughtful smile were still visible on Ash's face, but his intelligent eyes now sought nothing of their environment. They were like marbles, like paintings of what they had been, shells of the place that he once inhabited. His body had become a photograph, and his soul, the thing, the person that I had fallen in love with, was gone. Gone. Just like that. Gone.

"She killed him," says Crane.

"She killed him," I echo. "I was too late to save him."

He does not offer me condolences, does not tell me that it wasn't my fault. Because it was, and I know it already.

"Everything was fucked up from then on," I said. "Ash got a proper funeral, because an hour and thirty six minutes after he'd died, I called the police and told the operator that I'd just killed him. They came, and they arrested me. I spent a year in jail, awaiting trial, trying not to think of him, but it was completely useless. What I did... trying to kill myself... it was cowardly. I deserve to spend the rest of my life here thinking about it. And that... that is prison enough..."

"My parents came to see me in jail," I said, almost lazily. "They didn't recognize me at first. And then they did. My mother couldn't look at me. My father tried. But I knew what they thought. They both thought I was insane."

"In trial," says Crane, "you confessed to the two previous murders and the assault of Kale Vander-Well."

"Yes."

"You wanted to go to jail?"

"I wanted people to know the truth," I say. "Do you have any idea how many people were hurt when those men disappeared, when Kale turned up beaten within an inch of his life? They had family, friends, people that deserved answers... answers that I could give to them."

"But when you told them about the voice in your head, you got off on the insanity plea," says Crane. "So instead of going to prison, you were scheduled to come here. That's when you attempted suicide."

"People will think that I'm crazy for the rest of my life, Dr. Crane," I say. "I'm the only person in the world who believes I'm not."

Crane nods; this makes sense. He marks something else down on his clipboard and looks at me strangely, though I do not look back.

"I think we're done, Hallie," he says softly. "I think we're finished for today."


	9. Chapter 9

_I cannot thank everyone enough for reading and leaving such amazingly kind reviews! I nearly cried when I read them (I'm a little bit dramatic). So this is a really short chapter, but hopefully the next few will make up for it._

* * *

_"You can. You have to promise. Promise me."_

(_I can't, I can't, I can feel her, __I__ can't_)

_"Don't let her take you."_

(_Somebody take me, somebody hurt me, it hurts, __it__ hurts_)

I wake up in two things.

One: my cell, looking the same as ever, a big swimming room of the same old color that taunts me with its soundless reminders that I'm crazy.

Two: excruciating pain that I associate with my talk yesterday, with the memory of Ashley Carr.

It's dull at first, but the minute that I open my eyes, it grows a point like a bayonet and stabs through my stomach, searing flame up into my chest.

I draw in a sharp gasp and my arms fly to my torso, squeezing tightly to try and diminish the furious, flesh eating grief. I can't breathe. I can't go back to sleep. I can't ignore it. It's here. The gray walls, the fire in my belly, the stupid memories; it's all that I am.

I can remember everything now, while the pain is already here, while it cannot get any worse. I can remember days filled with sunshine that was thick and potent like honey, and laughter that rang in my throat for hours after it had stopped. I can remember how the stars and moon glowed with silvery brightness when I was looking at them with him, and how words had more meaning when he spoke them. And (_oh God_) I haven't tried to remember in so long, but there it is (_right where I left it_)... his face, his perfect face, smiling at me as if I were the only person in the room.

What I wouldn't give to have him here with me, to have him open the door and call my name, call me his Hallie doll.

_"Why doll?" _I asked him once.

_"Because you're perfect," _he had replied, _"like a china doll, but much more alive.__ You're my __Hallie__ doll."_

My heart worked for him, healed for him, beat because I was his, just before I met him I didn't know it. There is nowhere for me now. Now I belong to nothing but this cell, to the halls of the asylum where society has put me for protection.

I start shaking, and my nose starts bleeding, and my eyes start leaking, and Christ, am I ever a mess.

_"__Hallie__ doll," _mocks the Small Part. _"Look what he's done to you. __Not so perfect anymore."_

"I hate you," I whisper, and then, scream, to no one: "I hate you!"

She only laughs. Sometimes I wonder if she'll ever stop laughing at me.

Something has to be done about this. I cannot fall apart every time I think about his face, cannot let the Small Part destroy me every time she laughs at me, cannot let Crane torture me with his stupid mind games.

I have to get rid of it, all of it. Need to find some definition, something that's just me.

I cannot remember myself.

Who was I before all of this? Before the Small Part became my mentor, when she was just my friend and we were two different beings in one body? Who was Hallie Matthews when she existed?

I cannot remember.

_"You were nothing," _says SP. _"You were nothing before and you're nothing now. Without me, you are nothing."_

I cannot remember, but I can feel it, deep down in my Self, the tiniest bit of me that survived this mess. I can feel that I existed, that I was something, that I had something to me that didn't depend on the Small Part or Ash or anyone else. Something.

If I could just find it, maybe things would get better. I don't know where to look, but then again, I've never tried.

There could be no more Hallie and the Small Part. No more Hallie and Ash. It was time to start searching for my Self. It was time to win it back.


	10. Chapter 10

_Oh, yay, we're finally in the double digits as far as chapter numbers! _

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

"I want to see my parents."

I have the pleasure of knowing that, if nothing else, I have surprised Dr. Crane. Where I usually sit in the chair and cross my arms and refuse to talk to him about anything from my issues to how much the food sucks here, today I have opted instead to sit down and get straight to business.

Crane clears his throat. He adjusts the Glasses. He shifts in his chair. I wait patiently, all but knowing what he's going to say.

I thought about it some this morning, and came to the conclusion that wanting to succeed at something does not mean that you'll actually do it. To overcome the Small Part and find my Self is not going to be fun. Or easy, for that matter: I do not have the element of surprise, because all of my plans will be immediately revealed to her the moment I think about them.

So, all in all, things are going to be just peachy.

"This is most unusual, Hallie," says Crane. "You've been refusing to talk to your parents since you arrived here."

_It's not as if they offered._

"I've changed my mind," I say. "I think that you were right way back when, when you said that it would help me move on."

Dr. Crane doesn't look flattered by my declaration of defeat. Instead, he looks suspicious, though for once, he shouldn't be.

"What's changed, Hallie?" he asks. "Why do you want to see your parents now, when you haven't wanted to since they visited in jail?"

"Amends, Crane," I say nonchalantly. "They're my Mummy and Daddy. I can't hate them forever."

"This is for some personal gain."

"Duh."

Dr. Crane sighs. Clearly, we're not going to be getting anywhere good today.

"Okay," he says. "I can try to arrange a meeting, if they're willing. But you've got to be sure, as well. You've just had a serious emotional breakthrough, after all. Don't you think that you've had enough stress for a little while?"

"You know me, Doc," I say cheerily. "I can never get enough stress."

He doesn't look amused.

"I'll call Mr. and Mrs. Matthews," he says. "I'll tell them that you'd like to see them, though I can't guarantee that they'll come. Do you understand?"

I nod gravely. I'd understand completely if my parents didn't really feel like coming to visit their only daughter at the nuthouse. Geez, if I had a kid, I'd be the same way.

Sorry, kid. You're crazy now. You've got the voices to keep you company. I don't want to catch whatever you've got.

**

* * *

**

If anyone will know who I was when I was working independently, it's my parents. Mom gave birth to me, after all. I've never heard the story of my birth. What color was I? Did I cry? Did I have a grotesque fungus growing out of my eye sockets?

_"Bet you anything," _says SP, a little dryly. She hasn't been her happy-go-lucky self lately, not since I decided that I wanted to psychologically kick her ass. I guess that can put a person down in the dumps, if SP is indeed a person.

My parents share my genes. They gave me my chromosomes. Heck, they even lived in the same house as me for a good amount of my life.

(_If anyone will know who I am_)

They knew me when I'd only ever killed one person. They stuck with me through Ian.

(_who__ I was, of course, yes, was_)

They liked Ash.

**

* * *

**

_"He's very polite," says my mother, who is up to her elbows in soapy water. We are in her little yellow kitchen, in the kitchen that no longer has knives kept on the counters. __"And intelligent.__And certainly handsome, but approachable.__ He's a catch, __Hallie__."_

_"I know it," I say, grinning at Ash from the counter. He's sitting in the dining room, talking to my father. I can't hear what they're saying, and he can't hear us. It's a good thing._

_"So where do you see it going?" Mom asks me, nudging me in the ribs with her elbow. It's almost like I'm normal, talking about boys with my mom and giggling like a teenager. I never got this. I'm guzzling it like a Hummer does gasoline. It makes my stomach warm and __fizzy__, like I'm filled up with sweet tasting soda._

_"I think I might want to marry him one day," I say. Mom grins so wide that I think her face might turn entirely into teeth._

_"A wedding?" she asks. "Have you two talked about it?"_

_"Kind of," I say, shrugging. "__I've thought about it."_

_"Oh, you're so young," says Mom gleefully, "but I'm happy for you."_

_"I'm happy for me__, too."_


	11. Chapter 11

_Wow, it's been a long time! But I have a good excuse, you know; I've been very busy, and then Darkest Introspect (by neo savvy) was updated, and I was hysterical with delight, and suddenly felt as if I should be ashamed for having posted a Crane story in the first place -- came close to deleting it. But no matter, I have gotten over my self consciousness, and I have the next chapter._

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

That my parents refused to see me is a devastating blow to say the least. Dr. Crane tells me in our next session that he called them, and they said they weren't ready for a face-to-face confrontation.

"You made them think it was a _confrontation?" _I say incredulously. "How could you do that? No wonder they didn't want to come!"

"It was entirely their choice; I didn't coach them in any way," says Crane coolly.

"Oh sure," I snap. "I know you don't want me to get better, but this is low. _I need to see them."_

"I understand that you would like to see your parents," says Crane in a let's-be-reasonable voice that's so like him. "But if they choose not to come, I can't force them into it. You'll have to be patient; give them some time. You're their only daughter. Seeing you in this state is damaging."

"Shut it," I say angrily, "please. Spare me the lecture."

"Well since it's evidently bouncing off your forehead..."

"You don't get it, do you?" I shout. "I need to see them! Everything was leaning on that visit! And you let them get away! Do you have any idea how royally this fucks things up?"

Crane stares at me through the Glasses, and I have the (_insane_) urge to walk over and rip them off of his face, maybe take some skin with them. A whole handful. I'd like to dig my hands into the flesh of his cheeks and pull, pull until his blood is on my hands.

_Look, _I'd say. _He bleeds._

Though somehow, I doubt he would.

This is utter insanity.

"Why did you want to see your parents, Hallie?" he asks. "Really."

"They know me," I grumble, wrestling with my sudden bloodlust. "They know who I am."

"Don't you know who you are?"

"I have no fucking idea," I say ferociously.

"You don't know anything about yourself?"

"No! I don't even think I _have _a self anymore!"

"Then who am I talking to?" asks Crane, leaning back in his chair to listen.

"This...person," I say stupidly. "This person who's taken me over."

"The Small Part?"

"No, the person who's learned to cope with her." I sigh. "I lost myself. A long time ago. She took me. Ash brought me back for a little while, I think, but never enough for me to learn how to do it for myself. And now I'm gone again, and I'm just this mindless, painful robot who does nothing but think about the bitch that sits in the back of my mind."

"The Small Part couldn't have taken your Self, Hallie," says Dr. Crane with a chuckle. "Surely you must see that."

"Illuminate it for me."

"You really don't understand your own situation very well, do you?" he says. "The Small Part hasn't taken your Self because your Self wouldn't have let her. This new person that you say you are must have done it."

"I don't get it," I say grudgingly.

"This new person that you are buried her," he says. "Every time you were your Self, the Small Part disappeared. Ashley Carr brought her out of you, and she kicked the Small Part away. Every time you give up on your Self, away she goes."

"That's not fair."

"It's true," says Crane.

"Then what about Ashley?" I ask, shuddering at his name. "I told the Small Part to leave and she came back and killed him. How do you explain that?"

"You sent your Self away."

"No, I didn't!"

"You did," says Crane serenely. "You gave her to Ash."

I can't say anything to this, because suddenly, it makes sense. My Self was the one who could beat the Small Part back with a broom, but every time I gave her away

(_I thought I could be better with SP's coaching_)

or buried her in my mind,

(_I didn't want to think about anything from before_)

the Small Part easily invaded. When I chose to surrender my Self to Ash, to depend entirely on him, I lost myself to someone else, and the Small Part took over and did what she did best.

"Why does she kill?" I ask. "Why would she do this to me?"

"Socio and psychopaths don't need reasons," says Dr. Crane. "I suppose that's what she is."

"And how the hell do I get rid of her?"

"I diagnosed your condition as paranoid schizophrenia and chronic depression," said Crane. "There are medications for these, but they haven't been keeping the Small Part at bay." He smiles. "You're on your own."

I sigh. Isn't that the way it always works out?


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you, lovely readers, for your kind words of encouragement. I was very excited to see such an amazing response! You really are fantastic. I give you Chapter Twelve, which, I warn you, contains nothing monumental, but is nonetheless a necessary chapter, I assure you._

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

The next week passes in a slew of nondescript events. I eat. I sleep. I think, somewhere near what must be Friday, I feel my rusted engine give a feeble splutter and fall flat in my chest. I don't take it into account.

I start to notice that I'm getting much thinner than I used to be. I was never a toothpick; I always had curves. Now my wrist fits in the circle that my index finger and my thumb make, leaving room — lots of it. My cheeks hollow under my prying fingertips. My collarbone protrudes. If I had a mirror, I'd be afraid to look in it.

Plans whiz by in my head, but none of them will really work. The Small Part feeds off of my negative energy, sucking it in and rolling around in it. Sometimes, I ignore her, just sit there and let her soak in my misery, letting a few tears slide down my pallid cheeks. Crane's statement rings deep in my chest like a sick vibration.

_You're on your own._

It's never seemed so true before. I won't admit it to anyone else but myself: I didn't expect my parents to back out on me so easily. Then again, I haven't exactly been a model daughter... after all, who wants to admit that they have a murderer in the family...

In here, though, I can't hurt anybody. I suppose that's a plus. No one can get in the way of her anymore. She just has to stay caged, eating me from the inside out, until we both perish behind these walls. It's not as if anything better

(_or__ worse_)

is going to happen.

"Have you decided what you're going to do?" asks Crane.

I shake my head. I don't look at him.

"You should think about it," he says. "It's quite a large decision."

"I'm a psychopath, Crane," I say quietly. "I don't think it matters anymore. It's not as if I'm leaving this place anyway."

He says nothing, makes a mark on his clipboard, readjusts his posture, looks at me intently through the Glasses.

"You _have_ thought of some options, though," he says after a while.

"Some."

"Explain."

I roll my eyes.

"There are plenty of options, aren't there?" I say. "I could try your different medications. I could ignore her. I could give in to her."

I stroke my scars gently.

"I could get rid of the both of us."

Crane raises an eyebrow. "Is this a suicidal thought?"

"I've had them before; don't get your panties in a bunch."

"Hallie, if you're telling me that you're going to try and commit suicide in my facility, consequence has it that I'll have to put you on suicide watch." Crane won't take his eyes off of me. "Are you going to try it?"

"If I was, I wouldn't tell you, would I?" I say, staring determinedly at the wall behind his head. "And by the time you found out, there wouldn't be anything that you could do."

"You've put some serious thought into this," he says, making another note on his clipboard.

"It's something that requires serious thought."

"I'm putting you on suicide watch."

I frown; this deflates my ideas slightly.

"What does that entail, exactly?" I ask.

"You'll be under constant surveillance," says Crane. "You'll be put into a solitary room with no sharp edges or hard surfaces, and you won't be allowed any visitors that have anything on their person that you could harm yourself with."

I consider this.

"I could sleep on the floor, comfortably," I say. "I could run into the walls and just bounce off. And even though no one visits me, if someone was suddenly compelled to see me, I'd get to see them come in without any shoelaces. Correct?"

Crane doesn't answer. Or smile.

"As of now," I say, "I'm going to kill myself."

Crane makes another mark on his clipboard.


	13. Chapter 13

_Kind and patient readers, I've thought about it really, really hard, and decided that I'd get to the action already. We're nearing the final few chapters of Hallie's story, and she's going to go out with a bang._

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Three square meals a day, served with a delectable dessert of three

(_count__ '__em_)

three little pills in a Dixie cup that turn my toes tingly. My life morphs into an endless drag of downers, punctuated only by a tasteless breakfast, lunch, and dinner — not to mention Crane's Shrink-Me sessions.

I've told my story. I've exhausted every possible means of venting my frustration and pissy-ness in general. Today I'm done. If you gave me another broken beer bottle, I'd open up these scars.

Crane has drained what fight there was left in me with his seemingly endless talks. I've talked about my parents. About Ash. About the Small Part.

In the dizzying haze that the drugs induce, she torments me. It's all my fault, she tells me.

As if I didn't already know.

**

* * *

**

"Drink up, sweetheart. You've got a long stretch of boredom comin'."

Nursie hands me my Dixie cup of pills and another one with a drop of water. I hand it back to her.

"Do you have anything stronger?" I ask. "Whiskey, maybe? LSD?"

She smiles and pushes the little paper cup back at me.

"Drugs are for the feeble minded," she says.

I hold up my pill bucket and rattle it. "You calling me feeble minded?" I ask.

"Hallie, if you were attempting to make any sort of progress with the Good Doctor, I wouldn't tease you so. Seems to me you were making a breakthrough when you pulled the suicide card."

I swirl my pills around in their cup.

"Seems to you," I murmur absently. "Seems to me there's no breakthrough to be had. Maybe I'm just crazy, plain and simple, whaddayah say?"

"I say take your pills, before I lose my job."

I throw the pills in my mouth and toss back the water.

Swallow audibly.

Nursie leans forward to open my mouth, to check that the pills went down alright

(_don't__ play hide and seek with the pills, __Hallie__ baby_)

and when she comes in, I open my mouth and lean forward too, and take her nose in between my teeth and clamp down hard, harder, until I taste the taste of metallic blood in my mouth.

I really am sorry as I let go of her

(_she's__ screaming, oh God, she's screaming really loud_)

and kick her, hard, hard enough that I hear a crack as her nose breaks and a thud as she falls to the ground. I get the fuck outta there in my bare feet and slam the door behind me so she won't be getting out when she comes to.

Then I run.

**

* * *

**

I can hear my feet leaving liquid tracks behind me. Hell, I can _feel _it; it hurts. My foot is bleeding crimson on the immaculate floor.

(_musta__ got a little bite with the kick_)

Damn, it hurts. I'm half limping, more dragging myself along the brightly lit corridor. My feet make a sickening slapping sound on the floor. Nursie's probably leaking more red than I am, though; her nose will be gushing it. Maybe she'll bleed out and be another body on Crazy Hallie's list. She'll be mine, though, not SP's. That'll be a first.

A chilling first, and I don't care. There's only one thing to care about, and I'm running towards it without even attempting to stop the burning bloom in my lungs.


	14. Chapter 14

_Big chapter, dedicated to **Seducing Reason, **who said the insane do need reasons. Of course they do. It's funny how we know things that our characters don't. If Hallie had known all along, it would have saved her a lot of upcoming trouble._

_Also for Manga Girl number 6. "And then the pig bites her on the nose."_

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

_"Hey. You know I love you, right?_

_(Laugh.)_

_"__Yeah.__ I know."_

_"Do you know why?"_

_"I have no idea. I've already told you that."_

_"Do you want to know?"_

_(Nod.)_

_"Yes."_

_"I love you because you blushed the first time I saw you. I love you because, even though it sometimes scares the hell out of me, I've never seen you look in a mirror.__ I love you because you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening."_

_"Those are awfully stupid reasons to love someone."_

_"That's what I kept telling myself. But I love you because you're honest, too, and because you love art. I think about you a majority of the time, you know, and I keep thinking that there must be something I don't absolutely adore about you. But even the things that annoy me are things that I wouldn't change for anything in the world."_

_(Blush. __Smile.)_

_"Do you remember when we were walking in the park?"_

_"I try not to."_

_"Why?"_

_"I got sick! I had to go home early!"_

_"I know. That's what keeps coming back to me. Before you got sick, I thought I saw something in your eyes. __Something... purple."_

**

* * *

**

_"This is stupid, __Hallie__."_

I pull the hem of my shirt up to my mouth and take it into my teeth, ripping it cleanly so I can tear off a strip. The paleness of my underflesh dulls the clean white of the shirt, sickening me. Too little sunlight for too long. Need to be outside.

I take the makeshift gauze and wrap it around the crescent cut in the bottom of my foot. SP is right — this is stupid. The whole thing was stupid, right from the first little aggravation. I can see it all, like a reel of melancholy film in my head.

_Like your doctor? _

_I heard everything. _

_What did you do with her?_

_Do you really think I'm going to take more pills?_

_Mmm... __yeah._

The blood immediately soaks through, but I tie it tight enough that the toes go numb and it doesn't hurt so much. Like it matters. Stupid things like body parts start to become obsolete in the wake of the disaster I'm now facing.

_How do you know that?_

_I loved Ashley Carr. And now he is dead._

_Okay. I doubted._

_I've changed my mind._

I bit her. God, why'd I have to bite her when I could have punched her just as easily?

_"We wanted to taste her."_

_This person who's taken me over._

I've been so stupid.

_That's not fair._

But no one ever said it would be.

_And how the hell do I get rid of her?_

There's only one way. There only ever was one way, just like there only ever was one Crane, only ever was one person in the room when he sprayed me with his Fear Juice. Just like he doesn't have two sets of eyes, one with the Mad Twinkle and the other with the normalcy. The Sane Crane and the Crazy Crane are the same person. Why shouldn't they be? Who better to run the nuthouse than the nut?

Everything seemed so pointless. First he was punishing me for threatening him, making me think about Ash, making me remember that I am a criminal, only out of jail because I'm insane. He made me face my demons, because he knew that I wouldn't be able to handle them on my own.

But he punished me enough. Why keep on punishing?

_"Why else, __Hallie__-doll?__ It never left the original reason."_

I heard him dose that doctor. I heard her fall to the ground and scream. I heard people drag her out of the room. And since then, he'd stopped being my doctor and started inciting riots in my subconscious. Why, Hallie? Think.

Because you weren't supposed to know.

No one believes crazy people, right? Wrong. Who still loves you when you're locked up and talking to the walls?

Your parents.

_Why, __Hallie__? Think._

He never talked to my parents. Why would he? What would I tell them?

_"But... let's you and I keep this our secret, alright? Don't mention this to the doctor."_

You know, too, don't you, Nursie? You know that he's killing people in his hospital to serve his own egotistical logic. Don't agree with me? Death penalty. Don't like my methods? Death penalty. Didn't take your pills?

Death penalty.

_"Oh, don't be silly. Dr. Crane wouldn't hurt anybody."_

She knows, and she saved me

(_Death penalty._)

a lot of pain by getting me to keep the Pill Secret. She knew all along that I'm not insane, so she thought I'd get her hint when she told me Dr. Crane wouldn't hurt anybody. She knows the truth, but she doesn't want to know, and she doesn't want anyone else to know because they'll be killed. She'll be killed when he finds out that she knows.

It all makes sense. Poor doctor with the skinny frame and girly glasses, the kid who spent all his time in the science lab in high school. Poor doctor, whose mother probably taught him that aggression was wrong and he should take the path of God. Poor doctor, who bottled it all up inside, all the beatings from the cool kids and the lectures from the Church, who started to feel that he wasn't good enough for anyone, until he got a job that allowed him to control other people.

_What do you fear?_

He got a job that allowed him the opportunity not to feel worthless. _Don't agree with me? Don't like my methods? Didn't take your pills?_

Here, he is the superior. He is the highest authority. The city loves dear Doctor Crane, who locks up the loonies and throws away the key, who keeps them safe and makes them better. Who would think to check on the ever observant Doctor Crane?

Hallie Matthews.

_I heard everything. _

Stupid, stupid, stupid. So now I know his secret. And he knows that I know. And he's been trying to keep me occupied with my own secrets instead of his, been trying to isolate me so that I won't go blabbing. But what was the point?

Why am I still alive?


	15. Chapter 15

_A few things you need to know before you read this chapter..._

_One: I realize the last one was a little confusing for a few of you, but I really hope you'll bear with me, because this one is similar (though not quite so hardcore in the dizziness). _

_Two: This chapter has a lot of **breaks. **I want you to know that the **breaks **are intentional. I want you to notice my emphasis on the word **break. **_

_(again, bear with me)_

_And three: I know that the use of song in fanfiction is usually pretty ghastly, and down near the end is no exception, but rest assured that it's supposed to be that way._

_Thanks. Read and review please._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

_"Where are we going, __Hallie__?" _asks SP. _"If you've known his secret all along and he hasn't said anything, why the sudden worry?"_

"Who said I was worried?" I ask.

It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. The story fits, but there's that one little kink that fucks everything up: Me. He knows that I know about the murders. I was there in the room when he dosed the doctor. I confronted him. He's kept my parents from me and kept my plate full with my own issues so that I wouldn't think to burrow into his. But why go to all the trouble, Crane? Why not just kill me? We already know you have no problem with that.

I don't even think it matters why anymore. The point is, I'm alive now, and so are the other people in this godforsaken asylum. He has no problem with killing, and I have no problem with dying. If he does it, it'll be drawn out and painful, and reeking of terror, no doubt, but I've been through worse. Bring it on. Neither one of us is going to walk away from this one.

_"There's just one problem with that," _says the Small Part. _"If you go, I go. And I don't much feel like dying."_

"I know you don't, sweetheart," I say, "but it's all part of the plan."

Oh, yes — I have a plan.

**

* * *

**

Here's how it's going to work.

I don't much care why Crane hasn't killed me yet. His mistake. I'm alive, and I've decided that I'm not going to the other side without taking him with me. He won't kill anyone again, not if I can help it. I'm going to find him somewhere in this hospital, and then we're going to have a nice long chat, just the two of us. And when he's dead, I'll grab something sharp and finish the job I originally started with these thin little wrists of mine.

Crane and the Small Part, never to hurt anyone ever again. I quite like the sound of that. I do believe I once told Crane that my suicide attempt was cowardly. That hasn't changed. But maybe, just maybe, I'll get some redemption this time. There's got to be some reward in playing the hero.

**

* * *

**

He's not in his Shrink-Me room when I enter, but that doesn't surprise me. No way it would be that easy. When you're intending to murder someone, things always go wrong. Not that I would know; I myself have never killed anyone, but I've watched enough CSI to know that the universe conspires against you when you're planning to commit an evil act, almost as though it's telling you, "You don't have to do this, kid. Put down the gun and go home."

Well I don't have a gun, and I don't have a home, and I don't have anything to lose. I sit down in my usual chair and wait. He'll have a session sometime, and I'll be here waiting when he does.

I check the corners of the ceiling. No cameras in here. The Small Part is throwing a small fit in the back of my mind, but I don't care. I can't very well tune her out, but I get some little pleasure out of listening to her anger and knowing that she can't hurt me anymore. I'm through being the person who lives in fear of her.

It's strange, how accepting that you're going to die relaxes you. It's like watching a horror movie that you've already seen. Idiotic main character hears a noise upstairs and decides to go check it out even though she's wearing a nightgown and has no shoes on, but you've got your feet up in the real world because you know that she's going to clean the bad guy's clock in the end. Now, that might not exactly happen in my case, but at least I won't have to deal with any shit anymore. Something whispers _coward__coward__coward_about this whole thing.

Do I care?

Did I ever care?

I can't remember. I can't remember caring about anything before that wondrous boy who saw my eyes turn purple and loved me anyway. He was beautiful. Dumb, but beautiful.

**

* * *

**

_I sit on the bench in my window nook, where I always sit with a good novel on Sunday mornings so I can watch the traffic below. I open the window as wide as it will go and light up a cigarette. I haven't had one in months. The smoke settles in my lungs and I have to cough a few times to stir it up again. Then I dial._

_"911. What's your emergency?"_

_"My fiancée," I say, taking a long drag. "I've killed him."_

_"You've...?"_

_"Killed him, yes.__ With a knife, I think — I can'__t remember. You wouldn't believe me if I told you the whole story, so we'll just leave it at that."_

_"I'll need your address, ma'am."_

_I give it._

_"Alright.__ Now just stay on the line with me, okay? Emergency services are on their way."_

_"No need. He's already gone."_

_I hang up, and blow smoke out the window. It hangs for a moment in midair, as if it's staring at me with disgust, and then dissipates into the deep blue of the evening sky. I watch it go, and wave it goodbye. I wave everything goodbye in that second. __My apartment. __My ring. __My job. __My life.__ I'm looking at prison, which is fine with me. Maybe I'll die there. Maybe I'll go insane and I'll think he's come back._

_I want to look into the living room at him, but I'm afraid, so I keep staring out the window. Distantly, I can hear the sound of sirens, and I lift the __deathstick__ back to my lips._

**

* * *

**

I'm beginning to think that maybe I lost my Self too long ago for her to ever return. Maybe I'll never be that person again. I was already growing an emotional callous by the time I was fourteen.

**

* * *

**

_"Honey.__ Do you remember anything? __Anything at all?"_

_"No, Mom. I drank. Then I drank some more. __And some more.__ I don't remember stopping drinking. I remember going upstairs with Ian... and then I woke up."_

_"Woke up?"_

_"Blacked out, I mean. I blacked out, and when I woke up, I was still pissed drunk, so I just climbed out his window and started walking."_

_"Where on Earth did you think you were going?"_

_"Nowhere, Mom.__ I'm never going anywhere."_

**

* * *

**

I drum my fingers on the arms of the chair, and check the clock above Crane's chair. There's another one on the wall behind my head, too, so he can check the time and his patients can check the time and we can both of us know how fucking slow time is going while we pick apart the minute details of our miserable, worthless lives.

**

* * *

**

_"__Hallie__ Matthews."_

_Shit. He's talking to me. I didn't even have my hand up, or look eager. God, I probably didn't look like anything at all for the whole class — can't remember a minute of it, probably had my face buried in my arms the whole time... one hell of a night last night... _

_Right._

_"Could you repeat the question, sir?"_

_The professor crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at me, and I blush deeply as I realize that everyone around me is thinking about what an idiot I am. _

_"__Hallie__, do you think you could grace us with your presence?" the professor asks. __"Both physical and mental, please."_

_I flush deeper._

_"I'm really sorry, sir."_

_I don't add that being mentally present isn't something I'm particularly good at, especially when I've been up most of the night burying the body of a cheating boyfriend._

**

* * *

**

I hear footsteps in the empty hallway outside, and then the weight of a hand on the silver doorknob.

He's coming.

**

* * *

**

Did you know that Queen is one of my favourite bands? They seem to get me somehow.

_Mama, just killed a man,_

_Put a gun against his head,_

_Pulled my trigger, now he's dead._

_Mama, life had just begun,_

_But now I've gone and thrown it all away._

_Mama,_

_Didn't mean to make you cry —_

_If I'm not back again this time tomorrow,_

_Carry on as if nothing really matters._

**

* * *

**

Jesus, it just gives me such a fucking turn, you know? The adrenaline. The coppery taste in my mouth. The knot in my stomach. And you know what? It's not all bad.

**

* * *

**

_Too late, my time has come_

_Sends shivers down my spine_

_Body's aching all the time_

_Goodbye everybody, I've got to go_

_Gotta__ leave you all behind and face the truth_

_Mama_

_I don't want to die..._

_Sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all._

**

* * *

**

The doorknob turns and the door swings open and I set eyes on a familiar face. Dr. Crane smiles a cold, calculating smile.

"Ah, Hallie," he says. "What a pleasant surprise."


	16. Chapter 16

_This chapter pretty much speaks for itself._

**

* * *

****Chapter Sixteen**

"I expected I'd find you here," he says. "You've really been quite foolish. Did you think we let our suicidal patients sit in rooms unattended? The whole nursing station watched your little performance on the security screens."

"Why didn't you send anyone after me?" I ask.

"This may come as a shock to you, Hallie, but there are other people in this hospital who need my help."

I smile coldly, unruffled. He can't touch me.

"How's the nurse?" I ask.

"She'll be alright, I'm sure. You broke her nose."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because I was there."

"Why did you break her nose, Hallie?" he asks warily.

I shrug. "She would have tried to stop me."

He smiles his funny little smile. "Then you must have something very important to tell me," he says, "if it couldn't wait until tomorrow's session."

I take him in. I loathe him. He has an impeccably neat suit. Not a piece of lint anywhere. His glasses refuse to catch a glare. He has the stature of a man who is very much in his element, whose previous self hatred has yielded for his now self righteousness. He must have had one fucked up childhood. Now he's created a place where he can play God, and he plays the part well.

"I wanted to ask you a question," I say. "I'd prefer if you'd sit, though, so you're not talking down to me."

"Certainly."

He strides across the room in an easy, almost graceful way, a way that says he is not someone who wastes time. It occurs to me that if he wasn't a complete psychopath, he'd be my type of person. He takes a seat in the usual place and waits patiently. He knows we have time. I'm sure the clock tells him.

He waits.

_He waits._

"I've been thinking for the past few days," I say. "I've been considering everything that's gone on since I first got here."

"Oh? And what did you come up with?"

"Nothing, at first. You're weird, but you already know I think that. Then I heard you kill one of your staff, and I'm sure that didn't do much for my tragic mental state. Then you started sticking me in solitary and drugging me up for not knowing my place around here. After you were finished with that, you started asking me about my past. I always marked you for the type who'd hold a grudge."

"I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"You were punishing me for threatening you," I said, "at first... but after that, you weren't anymore, were you? And I let my hatred for you blind me."

The smile freezes in place. I can see in his eyes that he thinks I don't notice, but I do. That's the thing about God. He has a lot to look after. Sometimes he misses the things he considers small.

I've learned by now that small things can be very big.

"You weren't punishing me at all, were you, Crane? Not when you started talking about Ash. You were distracting me, trying to keep me from mentioning your deviant ways to the rest of your staff." I fold my hands in my lap and look at him curiously. "The only thing I can't figure out is why. You went through the trouble of steering my thoughts in a different direction when you could have just killed me the way you killed that doctor. She was smarter than I was. Why keep me?"

I can see the wheels turning in his head. He's thinking, but not fast, not out of desperation. He knows that he's in control here. He knows that it's just talk, all of it. It doesn't matter that I've noticed a pattern in his behaviour. All he has to figure out is whether or not he wants me to know more.

"For an intelligent girl," he says softly, "you do dumb very well."

He's not looking at me anymore. He's looking through me. I've made him think about his actions, think about the fact that he's now facing a consequence. I'm sure that his twisted little world is shaking right now. I'm sure he's —

Wait. Did he call me intelligent?

_You do dumb very well._

I'm missing something.

Something big.

Or... something small.

**

* * *

**

back to the lovely little ward from whence you came hallie-dearest we know something about madness don't we you do so that's what all the doctors before said deteriorating mental state just went nuts you're in an asylum for a reason doctors don't get this kind of thing wrong well you'd know wouldn't you hal what do you fear what do you fear say my name say my name hallie and I'll leave you alone you didn't do it without Me you need Me stupid bitch need Me he will hurt you just like all the others just like ian and michael and kale he will hurt you of course you need Me I protected you when there was no one else right from the very beginning you cannot tell Me to leave you cannot make Me leave he's not good enough for you he'll never be as good as Me hallie doll look what he's done to you not so perfect anymore you were nothing you were nothing before and you're nothing now without Me you're nothing bet you anything this is stupid hallie we wanted to taste her why else hallie doll it never left the original reason where are we going hallie if you've known his secret all along and he hasn't said anything why the sudden worry there's just one problem with that if you go I go and I don't much feel like dying

I'll never leave you

**

* * *

**

"You're beginning to understand, aren't you?" says Crane. "I'm surprised you didn't realize earlier why your life was so important, why you had to be spared."

_Spared._ Like he's eaten a Bible.

"The Small Part," I say. "You don't want me — you want her."

A slow smile spreads across his porcelain face, a maniacal grin. He's glad I understand. He's glad I finally "got it", as they say.

"Who wouldn't want her?" he asks. "She's really quite incredible, isn't she? She's strong. She can eat the human mind like it was candy. She's a killing machine, and she enjoys doing it, wouldn't ask for pay or a reason. Imagine, Hallie. Just pick a man. Pick a room. Let her loose, and watch all of your enemies disappear. Anyone who ever denied you anything. Anyone who ever said you weren't good enough. Kill for revenge. Kill for pleasure. Kill for money. The possibilities are endless."

"She'd kick your ass, Crane," I whisper.

"I'm sure she would, if she felt so inclined. But it would never come to that, because we're kindred spirits, The Small Part and I. We both understand that sometimes the ends must justify the means, that sometimes the means in themselves are joyous. She understands that some people are scum and have to be dealt with, and others are undeserving of the things they have, that their luxuries must be taken from them. She even understand you, Hallie Matthews, and you are an enigma."

"I can't control her," I say. "I hope you know that. If you're only keeping me alive for her, you're wasting your time. I can't make her come out."

"No," says Crane, "but I can."

"What, with your Fear Juice? That can only make me see her, Crane. My hallucinations can't kill other people."

Crane sighs. "You're right there, Hallie. Isn't it fortunate that I don't spend all of my times with the crazy people in the asylum? Isn't it lucky that I do work on my own interests from time to time?"

My stomach drops.

"What have you been doing?" I ask.

My voice shakes.

"I've been trying to isolate the Small Part of your brain," says Crane casually. He may as well be telling me how the weather is. "Some experiments have been done during the many times when you've been unconscious, particularly when you were in solitary. We were... testing the water, you could say."

"And what did you find?"

"Something very strange indeed. You see, Hallie, your situation isn't entirely uncommon; many people have multiple personality disorders, but very few of them actually hear the separate personality in their heads. In fact, many times, one personality doesn't know that they're sharing their body with another. I thought for sure the Small Part was one of these, something that could by no means be extracted from your body."

"But you were wrong." It's not a question. I know the answer not because I'm smart and understand any of the physical mumbo jumbo he's going through, but because I know people and know his tone.

"I was very wrong," he says. "In the best way, too. My misconception lead to something that was entirely advantageous. It turns out that the Small Part is not a chemical imbalance, but a chemical in herself, the likes of which I've never seen before."

"There's an alien chemical in my brain," I say tonelessly. I want to laugh, really badly. But I don't. Somehow, I don't think this is the time for it.

"Very good," says Crane. "Now, do you want to hear the best part?"

_No._

"Shoot."

"The chemical that contains the Small Part's essence can be removed from your brain with surgery," says Crane, "and injected into the brain of someone else."

_Oh, wonderful._

"So that's what you want to do, then. Replace my body. Give her to someone else."

"Precisely. Someone a little more... cooperative, hopefully. Someone weak, who won't put up as much of a fight as you have. With the Small Part injected into the mind of someone who gives up easily, she'll have her own body."

"And then what?" I ask. "Then she just becomes your own personal killing machine? It won't work that way, Crane. Sure, she'll listen to you for a while. You'll pay her, give her all the bleeders she wants and a place to come back to at the end of the day. But eventually, she'll get bored with being someone's pet, and you'll pay for caging her with every bit as much pain and humiliation as everyone else you sic her on. You know this is true."

"If I did, I wouldn't be going through with it. Would I?"

I clench my teeth, look away.

"What about me?" I ask at last.

"Well, with the Small Part gone, I'm sure you'd finally be able to lead a normal life, if you weren't still serving time here in Arkham. But of course, once I take what I need from you, it'd be rather pointless to let you live. Don't you think?"

"Yes."

"So, Hallie. What do you say? You were planning on killing me today, I can see, but I'm going to tell you right now that it's not going to happen. I have too much to do. So you have two options. You cna come quietly, die quietly, or you can try your fighting scenario and this whole ordeal will be much more painful than it needs to be."

He smiles at me pleasantly.

"Choose."

There are times in our lives when everything just goes to shit. Sometimes your car breaks down when you're in the middle of nowhere and you get out and you don't know what's happened or how to fix it or when the next car is going to come along or whether or not they're going to pick you up when they pass. Sometimes the seatbelt on the roller coaster comes loose and you're thrown right off into the abyss and the screaming crowd, and there's no way you can slow yourself down, and you spend your last few seconds knowing that you're about to die and it's going to hurt. Sometimes there's no reason at all. Sometimes everything just collapses, as if some ungodly power rolled the dice and they landed on your unlucky number. Sorry, kiddo. Sucks to be you.

When these things happen, we're usually pretty helpless as to what's going to happen next. We die or we live, or we live in the crappy slum that life now is.

This isn't one of those times.

This is one of the times where you get two unthinkable options and you _have_ to think about them, and choose one. In my case, it's an easy death or painful death. Not much of a choice, right?

Wrong.

Because I've experienced firsthand Crane's undeniable cruelty; I've seen the Mad Twinkle. That son of a bitch in the chair across the room is going to kill more people, and he's going to get off on it. Imagine I die today and I get up to heaven, and I tell all the angels the story of my death. I tell them that a psychopath was giving me the option of fighting back and I chose to submit.

What kind of a person would they think me to be? Not the kind of person I want them to think I am.

Not the kind of person my life has taught me to be.

I am a moron.

I look at Crane, and mirror his smile, and say,

"My plans haven't changed."


	17. Chapter 17

_One more chapter after this._

**

* * *

****Chapter Seventeen**

It doesn't take long.

Dr. Crane rises from his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. I hold perfectly still and stare back into his cruel blue eyes. Something stirs behind them, something larger and much more ominous than the Mad Twinkle. I've never really thought about Crane as a person. He's always been more of a shadow to me, something that frightens and swallows me but is ultimately intangible. It occurs to me that he could be more. That's the scary part. Dr. Crane isn't a monster — he's a man. He has a mother and a father and he was a _child _once. He has a personality. Maybe two. Maybe something hides behind those eyes, something that eats away at him the same way The Small Part eats away at me.

Maybe we're not so different.

He's going for the intercom, looking to call his lapdogs so he can drag me out of here like a piece of meat. The minute his arm extends to hit the CALL button, I'm up. I don't weigh much anymore, so it only takes a matter of seconds for me to get across the room and pull his hand away. He uses his free hand to punch me across the face, and I fall to the floor.

"Hallie," he says calmly, "what do you think is going to happen here?"

I kick him in the knees, taking his legs out from under him, and we're eye to eye. I make to kick him in the face with my bare foot, but he catches it with deft hands and twists it away. White pain shoots up my leg and I grit my teeth against it, lunging at him.

(_I'd like to dig my hands into the flesh of his cheeks and pull, pull until his blood is on my hands._)

(_look__ id say he bleeds_)

My hands are on his wiry little throat. I can feel his blood pulsing beneath the skin, can feel his lungs heaving to get air in past the smothering pressure. I want to feel him like this until it's over, until he starts to twitch and finally goes still.

_"Who's the monster now, __Hallie__ Matthews?"_

I gasp heavily and release him, falling backwards onto the floor as that thought rolls through me. No time, I tell myself, get the fuck up and kill the bastard before he kills you. A growl rises in my throat, and it turns to a scream as all the people inside my threaten to boil over. _Stop talking to me._

Self.

_Warrior._

_"Small Part."_

Crane is up, and he's sweating. He's scrambling to get to the intercom. I can see his limbs shaking. He's scared. He thinks I'm wrestling with the Small Part. He doesn't want her to come out.

I could really use her help about now.

I grab him, wrapping my arms around his ankles, and he tumbles backwards onto my rib cage, knocking the breath out of my body with a dull _whoosh. _I grab his neck again, both hands pulling him towards me so that the bones jut out grotesquely and I can feel him swallowing the air like a fish out of water. His perfectly manicured nails claw at the tops of my hands, drawing blood, but he realizes that I'm not going to give in over something as stupid as blood.

He reaches further, his hands groping across my face, and gouges at my eyes. I turn my face away, squinting, and he takes a handful of my hair and yanks. I have to admit — it hurts. It feels like it's going to come out from the roots. I yelp momentarily and let him pull. He's smothering, dying.

He lifts his foot and brings it down on my shin again and again. I can feel bruises forming on my leg and underneath the skin of my stomach, where his weight hit me. He wriggles, lifts his head, and slams it back onto my face.

I hear my nose break with a sickening crack and white pain slices through my being. Blood trickles down my front and into my mouth, and I let him go with reluctant swiftness to cup my hands over my face. He rolls over, stands, straightens, and looks down on me. Without warning, he lashes out, the tip of his perfect shoe making contract with my cheekbone, sending my head backwards at an unnatural angle.

"You can't win, Hallie," he hisses, still catching his breath. I can see red marks on his neck from my hands.

He walks easily over to the intercom while I tremble and bleed on the floor. Suddenly I feel bad for Nursie. This royally sucks.

_What now, __Hallie__-doll? Broke your nose and the plan's a no-go_.

I cough and little beads of crimson fly into the air. It dribbles down my chin and into the back of my throat.

Crane is talking into the intercom, babbling, panicking. They probably can't make heads or tails of his story, but they'll come for him anyway. They'll come for him and they'll come for me, and the Small Part will be extracted from my brain like some sort of tumour, and they'll put her in some poor sap's body, and I'll become obsolete.

The blood paints trails between my fingers. It's warm, and it's coming out fast. I am drifting.

_nononononono_

_wake__ up _

_nono_

_no_

It hurts. I don't want to fight.

_What's that bullshit? Get the fuck up!_

Tired.

_Move your ass, __Hallie._

It hurts to roll over onto my stomach and make my jelly arms support me, but I do it. I'm not sure how I do, but I... do. I'm up, as if in a haze, and then I'm actually on my shaky legs, and I'm standing, and Crane doesn't hear me over the sound of the men on the other side telling him that someone will come for him. Blood drips onto the carpet from my nose with a tiny plinking sound that he can't catch. I look around, woozy, and my eyes fall on his desk. There's something there.

Shiny.

I reach out, and my vision changes focus on me, making everything blurry.

_Reach, baby._

I do. I reach, and I take hold of something cold and hard, and when I pick it up, it's heavy. It's a pen, one of those gigantic expensive numbers that psychiatrists use to write prescriptions.

It feels good.

**

* * *

**

_Mama... _

He's like butter, it turns out. The pen goes into his back with a slippery half-ease, a little pause and then a sudden shove that pulls me forward with it. I use both hands to push it in, and the blood starts blooming across his white shirt almost immediately. There's a little pause between CLEAN and BLOOD, but it's a few seconds, probably less, something only a crazy person would notice. He screams when I do it. There's no other word for the sound that comes out of his mouth. It's an evil thing; it makes my gut squirm and makes me want to take it back. It sounds like pain. Like a human in pain.

He doesn't see it coming because he's still leaned over the intercom, and I have to get him in the back, under his shoulder, between two ribs. The blood mingles with my own, on my hands.

_Blood on my hands._

I let go of the pen, leave it there, and he turns around to look at me with a mixture of hatred and disbelief. He didn't think I'd really do it.

Wrong-o.

We're just staring at each other now, and we're both in pain. He's wheezing a little. Maybe I punctured a lung.

"You... " he whispers.

I nod slowly, almost sympathetically. "Me."

And then his guys come in.

There are a hell of a lot of them for just one escaped patient, but I guess he must have told them that I was dangerous, anticipating the Small Part's arrival. She's remained eerily dormant through this whole process. I wonder what she's thinking right now...

I let them take me. I actually drop into their arms when they reach out to grab me, grateful to be off my feet. Stupid, I know, but I'm fucking tired. Planning and executing murder is a hell of a job.

They drag me out of the room, and someone screams when they see what I've done to Crane. I hear them behind me in the room while they pull me away, and I smile. He won't die. I didn't even hit his heart. I wish I had the chance to do more - five more minutes with him and the fucker would've been so dead, he'd need a new word for dead.

"You're in a lot of shit," says one of the men holding me.

"I know," I wheeze, "I always am."

I let my head fall onto my shoulder, and I'm out.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen -- Final Chapter**

The time I tried to commit suicide, I was on trial for triple homicide. They couldn't try me for the murder of Ian deFranc because I'd already been found innocent in the trial before. I was staying in prison during the trial, but I'm not going to say it was a particularly horrible experience. Sure, it wasn't a walk in the park. But I've had worse. That's what I keep telling myself, especially now. I've had worse.

Crane knows that I was in prison when I slit my wrists with the broken pieces of a beer bottle. So does everyone else. I told them that I got the bottle off one of the inmates who had an outside connection. Complete bogus. I got the beer from my own outside connection — my parents.

Mom and Dad have always been extremely straight laced, but they've also been completely devoted to me since the day I was born. The one perfect child. Not so perfect, obviously, but what could they do? I was their daughter. I guess, in a way, I still am, but things have changed, and if I'm right about what's happening, things will continue to change.

So anyway.

I sent a cryptic letter to them that basically told them I needed something sharp. They got the message and sent me a letter back to ask if I was sure. I could tell from the tearstains that they were having a hard time with the concept that their little girl wanted to commit suicide. When they realized that I wasn't about to change my mind, they understood — kind of. Normal people don't exactly understand the reasoning of a depressed maniac, but they did better than I thought they would, and they slipped me the bottle on their next visit. I broke it during the night and didn't think twice. It hurt like a motherfucker, and to this day I'm not sure how they managed to sew me up, but they did. I woke up in the hospital and they cut the time to Arkham so that I'd be out of the psych ward and into the nuthouse sooner. Fun stuff.

When I was cutting, I wasn't exactly thinking anything coherent. It was more of a flash, like the red light that goes off with alarms in cheesy cop flicks. You shouldn't be doing this. Coward. Get up. Deal with your shit. You shouldn't be doing this. It went on and off, but eventually I was bleeding enough to start losing consciousness, and all of my senses dulled. I remember hearing voices when they came to get me, but I couldn't feel them lifting me out of my cell. The hospital sucked, but I'd anticipated that. Well, I hadn't — I mean, I'd been expecting to die. But every time I think about hospitals, it sucks. Hospitals just suck, you know?

The day I got to Arkham, I was supposed to have a roommate. Turns out Liz really was crazy. She tried to kill me. It's funny looking back on it, because my attempts to save my own life were pretty pathetic, but I'm alive, so I must've done something right. After that I got a single. They were supposed to get me another roommate, but they didn't. I got to stay all by myself, which I considered to be a good thing. I've always liked my privacy.

I've been thinking, and maybe that's part of my problem. Is there such a thing as too much privacy? Maybe if I wasn't so introverted for my entire life, I'd have learned how to ask for help. Does that sound sentimental or what? Ask for help. Get help now. Whatever. I'm a psychotic murderer. I'm beyond help.

Maybe that's the _real _problem. Maybe there is no "part of the problem". Maybe there's no part at all. It's a definite possibility that I really am just crazy, and I've fabricated The Small Part in order to place the blame on a separate being. But that would make Crane crazy too.

Of course, I already knew that. Crane is crazier than most of the people in his hospital. He enjoys watching people in pain, in fear. I'll bet his mother was a fanatic. Repent, repent, repent. I almost feel sorry for him when I think about what a horrible childhood he must have had to build his twisted character. Thinking about it earlier wouldn't have stopped me from killing him, though. It kind of sucks that I didn't get to make sure, didn't get to watch him die. I had pictured it so differently... some big, triumphant moment, one way or the other. Either I'd die or he'd die, but there'd be some end-all-be-all to our existence together. That didn't happen.

Well, I don't know. I may die yet.

I didn't expect myself to be so disappointed at the prospect. I thought for sure I'd been excited about dying. I tried to off myself the one time, and then I went into Crane's office expecting to kill or me killed. I've pretty much put death on a pedestal. Hail death. Love death. Death, death, death. And now I may very well die, and I don't know if I'm ready. It won't hurt, I'm sure. Or if it does, don't I deserve it? And does it really matter, in the end?

If I die, I'll see Ashley again. Beautiful Ashley Carr, who looked at me as if he still loved me even though I'd killed him. I feel like a teenager all over again whenever I think about him. He gives me that feeling like your insides are whipped cream, and everything deflates when he walks out of the room. I can almost see him, sometimes, and that really is crazy. I can see him in ways that never happened, that aren't memories but pure fantasy. I can see him stroking my bangs off my face and whispering my name, and smiling. So mushy, such complete fluff, but that boy was gorgeous. If dying meant hearing him knock one more time, come in and ask how my day was, that would be worth it. Just for my name to come out of his mouth one last time would be worth death and destruction and pain.

There's another kind of sympathy for Crane when I think about that, because I know that Crane will never feel for another person what I've felt for Ash. But maybe that's not true.

(_we're__ kindred spirits, The Small Part and I_)

I think that, once this operation is over and SP is in someone else's brain, Crane could very well fall in love with her. It'd be a tragic thing, though, because she could never love him back. I know the Small Part well enough to know that, no matter how beautiful the body she's in, she'll never love. There may be some substitute, like sex or sweet words, but in the end, it'll be something shrivelled and evil and dead, something that should never happen, and Crane will regret it.

I wish I could live to see that. I know that, before he realizes his mistake, there will be fire and destruction. Many people will lose and be lost. There will be blood and death, and I'm scared for the people who experience it firsthand. At least they don't have to take it so intimately. I've slept in the same bed as the Small Part for many nights. She is as much my lover as she is my abuser, and in a way, I'm glad I'll die after this because life without her would be so strange and empty. When have I ever had to focus on anything but not killing people? Before and after Ash, SP was my life. She's right. Without her, I am nothing.

But I guess I knew that.

**

* * *

**

"Was there a specific location?"

"No. He just said dump her — not too far out. It has to look like she got out and walked on her own, then just dropped dead."

"Yeah. Do you think this is far enough?"

"No. Gun it a little farther."

"Good?"

"Yeah. Here — help me get her out."

"She's really light."

"Did you expect a fat ass, with what Crane feeds them? There. Dump her. No, not like that. Make it look like she collapsed."

"Happy?"

"Good enough. Let's get the fuck out of here."

**

* * *

**

The Small Part doesn't speak. The air is cool, a gentle breeze caressing my skin. I inhale the smells of the city. They're not close enough to be particularly repulsive. Mostly, I can smell grass and dirt, things I haven't smelled in a long time. It's nice.

Everything hurts, especially the back of my head, which feels like it's splitting right in half. I can feel bruises on my wrists and ankles, and a place on the inside of my elbow where a needle pricked me.

But I can't hear the Small Part. So the operation must have been a success.

I should be excited about that, but I'm too tired. It occurs to me that I will die here. I've been dumped out somewhere where people won't find me for a while, and I need proper after-surgery care. I'll die. I should relish these last moments, when I am just myself, free.

I wouldn't want to be anywhere else for this. The outdoors is more perfect than I remember. The sounds of distant crickets, the ants crawling across my wrist... it's like the world is still existing somewhere, outside of Arkham, where the sun never shines. I want to open my eyes, but I'm so exhausted. Time drags, and I just enjoy what I can feel and smell and taste on the air.

I've never felt anything so perfect in my entire life.

Maybe I was stupid for thinking that I was really going to kill Dr. Jonathan Crane. After all, he is the one and only, the psychotic legend, "The Man" as the saying goes. He's probably all sewn up by now, on the road to recovery.

In the end, it all comes down to me.

Who cares about Crane. He isn't the center of my story. I am. He helped. If he weren't such a creep, he'd actually be a pretty good doctor. He opened me up to a bunch of stuff that I wasn't ready to deal with, but I dealt. I fought off my demons, and I conquered. I didn't conquer the doctor, but I beat the other enemies to a pulp. I got through the darkness and I made it all the way... well, nowhere in particular, I guess. Here.

Here I am.

_Here I go..._

**

* * *

**

Carl Bremen was sick of his truck. He didn't need the heat now, but the heater had kicked out last December, and from what he'd heard, winters could get pretty fucking cold in Gotham. He sincerely doubted he'd continue getting anything from his girlfriend if he had to admit that he couldn't even afford to get his truck a new heater. Ashley had expensive taste. How he'd ended up with her, he had no idea. Well, not ended up necessarily. He was twenty-five years old, not quite ready to "end up" with anyone.

He wasn't sure he was ready to end up in Gotham, either. Got ham? Seriously. Besides, the place was undeniably creepy, the buildings dark and melodramatic, the alleys sketchier than those of his native New York City. And that asylum... he'd had the unpleasant experience of driving past it on a weeknight. He'd heard the screaming.

If he had his way, he'd still be living at home. His mother had plenty of space in the basement, and Ashley wasn't at the stage where she was plugging at him to let her move in. He could make a living selling his soft porn books, and pay his mother rent if she insisted. It wasn't about the money. It was about home. Gotham wasn't home; college wasn't home. He'd tried the college dorms, but that was a complete train wreck. How was anyone supposed to concentrate?

The college was prestigious, but it was still in Gotham. He hadn't known what he was in for when he'd chosen this school. He'd seen pictures; it looked comfortable, old-fashioned, and the architecture was interesting. He thought that living in the city would be an interesting experience. Maybe, in a way, he'd gotten what he'd asked for... more than he'd asked for.

"Nice night," Ashley remarked from the passenger seat as they crossed out of the city. They were on their way to her parents' cottage out in the country, which had been offered to them grudgingly. Carl guessed Ashley had begged them to make the offer as some extended hand of friendship. Carl hadn't bitten their fingers, but he hadn't thawed out either. Ashley's parents were assholes. She knew it. She'd never admit it, but she knew it.

"It is. Full moon."

"All the crazies will be out." She laughed. The idea of hoodlums being out as a tribute to the full moon was, to her, completely absurd, and therefore comedic. Carl, however, was a little worldlier. He knew that a few crazies really would be out, doing what crazies did best... and what they did, he was certain he didn't want to know.

He laughed with Ashley, but his stomach turned, and he looked out onto the road, floating away in the music.

"Jesus!"

He jolted. "What?"

Ashley stared out the window, stricken.

"Stop the truck!"

"What?"

"Stop the truck! Carl, there's someone on the side of the road!"

_"What?" _He hardly believed her, but he stopped obediently, pulling over onto the shoulder. Ashley was out of the truck before it had even come to a full halt.

She ran down the road, her high heels clicking on the asphalt, until she reached the place where she had cried out. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw her kneeling down, reaching out... and then he saw the pale hand in the grass.

"Ashley!" he hollered, getting out. "Ashley, for God's sake, don't touch it!"

"She's alive!" Ashley called back.

"What?"

He really felt like a dumbass now.

"Do you have your cell phone?"

He blinked. "Of course."

"Call an ambulance. Now!"

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket as he jogged over to her. She was sitting in the grass next to a woman in a hospital gown. Blood had run down the side of her face and she was as pale as a ghost. Her cheeks were sunken, like a skeleton's, like she hadn't eaten in weeks.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

Ashley's hand was on the woman's arm, the compassionate touch that only another female could offer.

"Are you calling?" she asked.

"Oh — right." He pressed the green CALL button and waited.

The night was dark, foreboding, and the wind carried the scent of something dead and ominous. Something wicked and dangerous. Something that was coming far too soon.

"911," said the dispatcher.

_"What's your emergency?"_


	19. Author's Note

**Author's Final Note**

The format for this story was inspired by Stephen King's _Lisey's__ Story. _If you're a patient reader who enjoys thick plot and a lot of darkness, this book should be on the top of your reading list. It is an amazing literary experience.

The lyrics at the end of Chapter Fifteen are to Bohemian Rhapsody, by Queen.

If you want to see what The Small Part looks like when I imagine her, watch AFI's music video for Girls Not Grey. Her colors are wrong, but the cartoony-ness of her is perfect.

I believe thank-you's are in order. Thanks, of course, to everyone who reviewed; you guys are absolutely fantastic. I want to add that I never thought for a minute that I'd get this many (my first story on FF completely bombed), and I'm deeply flattered. Thanks also to anyone who read but didn't review — you guys rock too, although less like ACDC and more like Sum 41.

And to answer the question that numerous people have been asking me, yes there's going to be a sequel. **See my profile** for a synopsis of _The Small Part: __The__ Second Part._ Batman not only makes an appearance, but he's a main character! Ooh, excitement.

Thanks so much for reading, and for all your support. I hope to see you again for the sequel.


End file.
